London, Summer 1984
by nonadhesiveness
Summary: "I've got nothing to hide." A piece of Elizabeth's past resurfaces, and she's forced to confront memories long since buried. When perception is everything, will she find the strength to face her fears and open up to the nation, but more importantly, to her family?
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** "I've got nothing to hide." A piece of Elizabeth's past resurfaces, and she's forced to confront memories long since buried. When perception is everything, will she find the strength to face her fears and open up to the nation, but more importantly, to her family?

 **A/N:** Elizabeth's character fascinates me, and I wanted to explore how—given her personality, and the glimpse we saw of her as young girl—she coped with her parents' deaths, and also her relationship with food. This is the result. (N.B. I kept the flashbacks deliberately mild to avoid triggers.) If this isn't for you, I've posted a couple of other stories that might be more your thing. Check them out. Thanks.

* * *

 **London, Summer 1984**

 **Chapter One**

 **Present Day**

BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP.

Elizabeth groaned. No way. It couldn't be seven o'clock already. The cold air prickled over the back of her arm and charged every last hair to attention as she groped and fumbled her way across the bedside table—phone, book, binder, other phone—until her hand stumbled upon the alarm. She swatted it.

BEEP-silence.

Thank God.

The mattress dipped behind her. A moment later, Henry's hand grazed her waist and then slid down, down, down and teased up the hem of her t-shirt. With his palm flat to her stomach, he fluttered his fingertips over her skin and then pressed his chest flush to her back—a surge of warmth—followed by a trail of kisses that started at the tip of her shoulder and ended at the spot behind her ear. "Good morning." His lips brushed against her earlobe, his voice groggy from sleep.

A tingle shivered up the curve of her neck, and she cracked open one eye. A shaft of sunlight sauntered through the slit between the curtains and illuminated the motes of dust that spiralled through the air. "Morning."

Henry nuzzled the nape of her neck. "I think we should add a 'good' to that."

She chuckled, but as his hand slipped lower and lower over her abdomen, she caught hold of his fingers and laced them through her own, thus stalling their descent.

He propped himself up, and as his gaze raked over her, she rolled to face him. He quirked one eyebrow, as if to say— _Why not?_

Elizabeth met him with a stern gaze. "I've got work."

Darkness eddied beneath the surface of his eyes. He freed his hand, and cupping her jaw, he brushed his thumb back and forth over her cheek. "You can be five minutes late."

"Wow, a whole five minutes, huh?" A smile crept across her lips, and she met the pecks that he placed at the corners of her mouth with the flutter of a kiss. "Sounds romantic."

"Then tell them you were busy." His lips roamed down her neck and then paused to suckle at her pulse point, and when her breath hitched, he smiled against her.

"Doing what exactly?" She threaded her fingers through his hair and dragged her nails over his scalp as he wandered lower, over her collarbone and between her breasts, pressing sloppy kisses through the cotton of her shirt.

"Book club."

She snorted. "At seven AM?"

His gaze darted up to meet hers, his eyes alight with a dangerous glimmer. "It'll be a riveting read, I promise. A real page—"

BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP.

Henry's whole body jumped, and his eyes shot wide; he couldn't have looked more surprised had her whole DS detail stormed into the room.

Elizabeth cackled. "Oh my God, Henry, you should see your face." She cradled his head against her stomach whilst his own chuckle reverberated through her, and then she shifted from beneath him and placed a kiss to the top of his head. "I guess that's the universe's way of saying 'no'."

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and her toes wriggled as the cool air snaked between them. She padded across the floor towards the bathroom.

Henry called after her, "What about you? What do you say?"

She stopped in the doorway and smiled over her shoulder at Henry as he peered up at her from the tangled sheets. "Take a cold shower."

A pause. Then—"Join me."

Elizabeth grinned to herself. Top marks for persistence.

* * *

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open on the seventh floor. No one waiting to meet her, always a promising start. Elizabeth strode through the outer office, the air alive with the trill of telephones and the bustle of paperwork as interns and staffers flurried by. At the end of the office, hunched over his desk with his head in his hands, was Blake.

"Good morning." Elizabeth patted his arm as she sailed past.

"Morning," Blake murmured, or perhaps groaned. Then his head snapped up, and he did a double take. "I mean: Good morning, ma'am." He pivoted in his chair and jumped to his feet, and then scurried after her as she dumped her bag inside her office door and made a beeline for the break room. "Ma'am, there's a Ms Harston on her way up to see you."

Elizabeth shot him a glance over her shoulder. _Ms—_ "Who?" The colleagues they passed in the corridor murmured their greetings, and she returned them with a nod and a smile.

"Ms Harston," Blake repeated. And when she frowned, he continued, "Russell Jackson arranged the appointment…regarding your interview next week…" His expression withered. "Still no bells?"

She gave a shrug. "I guess I don't believe in Santa." The aroma of coffee that bloomed from the pot and percolated through the air hit her as she stepped backwards into the break room.

Blake stopped in the doorway, and his expression turned to despair. "The profile piece."

Something vague fluttered in a recess of her mind. "Right." Her frown eased for a second, and then deepened again. "Am I still doing that?" She turned to the table, where almond croissants, blueberry friands and chocolate muffins all crammed onto the cake stand at the centre. Elizabeth grabbed a plate and perused the selection. Her stomach grumbled.

"Yes, ma'am. Russell Jackson is insistent."

Elizabeth shot Blake a look. "Well, if Russell's insistent…" She nabbed one of the chocolate muffins and set it on her plate, turned back to the door, hesitated, and then grabbed a friand too.

Blake cleared his throat. Eyes wide, eyebrows arched, he nodded at her plate.

Elizabeth's smile fell. "What?" She clutched the plate to her chest, as if someone—Blake—might snatch it away. "I'm feeling carb-y."

"I can see that," Blake said. His gaze lingered on the cakes. Pining.

Elizabeth broke off a chunk of muffin and popped it into her mouth. Moist, chocolatey gooeyness. So good. Had she been alone, she might have moaned. She licked her thumb clean and then tilted her head to the cake stand. "Want one?"

Blake's tongue darted out, as if to lick a dusting of icing sugar from his lips. But then his expression crumpled. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "I can't." He hurried after Elizabeth as she carried the plate back to her office, his footsteps quick behind the tap of her heels. "I'm actually meant to be on this five day juice cleanse."

 _Juice cleanse_. Elizabeth stopped so sharply that he almost bundled into the back of her. She turned to face him. "Why?"

"Some old friends are in town this weekend," Blake said as they continued along the corridor. "I promised I would meet up with them and—"

"And you think they care what you look like?" Elizabeth raised her eyebrows just a fraction.

Blake paused. Baffled. "Well, they're human…so, yes."

Elizabeth stopped by Blake's desk. "No one cares, Blake. And if they do, maybe it's time to get some different friends." She presented him with the blueberry friand.

Blake stared at it suspiciously.

She held it closer to him. "It won't kill you."

Blake gave a wry smile. "You should tell that to my Uncle Melvin." When Elizabeth frowned, he added, "He's horrendously allergic to blueberries."

Elizabeth eased the cake away, and she studied him as if he might erupt in hives at any moment. "Are you?"

Blake's lips pursed. Then—"No."

She grabbed his hand, turned it over and dropped the cake in his palm. "Life's short, Blake." She patted his arm. "Live a little."

"By eating cake?" With the way that Blake eyed the friand, it might contain either hemlock or the secret of eternal life.

"It's a start," Elizabeth said.

Blake stared at it a moment longer, then lifted it to his mouth, inhaled its sticky scent and took a large bite. His eyes closed and let out a moan. Utter bliss.

Elizabeth chuckled to herself. "See. Didn't hurt, did it?"

"Tell that to my PT," he said through his mouthful. He crammed the rest into his mouth and then dusted down his hands and motioned to the woman sat on the sofa outside Elizabeth's office. He chewed quickly and then swallowed. "I believe this is Ms Harston."

"Madam Secretary." The auburn-haired woman stood up and tottered towards Elizabeth, hand outstretched, her smile so wide that it revealed the smudge of coral lipstick that stained her teeth. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last. I'm Emilie."

"Nice to meet you." Elizabeth shook Emilie's hand and then motioned for her to step inside the office. She gestured towards the couch. "Please. Take a seat." Once she had placed her plate with its chocolate muffin down on the coffee table, she shrugged off her trench coat and tossed it to Blake.

Blake caught the coat with a flourish and hung it up in the closet. He turned to Elizabeth. "Is there anything I can get for you, ma'am?"

"Just coffee," Elizabeth said. "Thank you."

Blake nodded and flashed her a smile. "Coming right up."

Elizabeth lowered herself onto the cushions at the opposite end of the sofa to Emilie. She met the young woman with an expectant smile. "So, I understand that Russell Jackson sent you?" She broke another piece off the muffin and stuffed it into her mouth.

Emilie nodded, a touch too enthusiastic. "Mr Jackson just wanted to make sure that you're prepared for the interview next week." She rifled through the pink leather tote at her feet and produced a file stuffed with page after page of paper. "I've drawn up a list of questions." She handed the wad to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth brushed the chocolate crumbs from her fingers before taking it. "Since this is more of a profile piece, aimed at showing your personal side rather than your policies, pretty much everything is up for discussion."

"I can see that," Elizabeth said. She wet her thumb and flicked through the reams of questions. Some of the CIA files she had worked with were far less exhaustive than this. _Asking about her job at UVA… fair enough, but did people really care about her favourite colour?_

She dislodged a piece of chocolate from her teeth with her tongue as she scanned down the list. Several pages deep, Blake nudged the door open and carried a tray with two cups of coffee inside. He balanced it on the table and handed Elizabeth hers. Elizabeth shot him a look. "You might want to bring the whole pot."

Emilie's smile faltered. "I know it seems like a lot—"

Elizabeth glanced at her. _No kidding._

"—but the worst thing is to be caught off guard."

Coffee cup halfway to her lips, Elizabeth paused. "I have done interviews before."

"I know that, ma'am." Emilie nodded. She chewed on her bottom lip, and the smudge of coral spread. "But given the personal angle…Mr Jackson thought it would be best to go through all the scenarios first, just in case."

 _All scenarios? What, exactly, did Russell think she did all day?_ Elizabeth laid one hand atop the stack of paper. "I think I can manage most of these questions without any hand-holding, so how about we skip to the ones that you—" _or Russell_ "—are most concerned about."

"Um…sure…" Emilie took out her own copy of the document and sifted through the pages. Each sheet that she turned, she placed down on the cushion between them. The pile grew larger and more disordered by the minute. She paused on a particular page. Her brow furrowed, and she made a kind of tutting noise as she skimmed down the column of text. Then she stopped. She looked up at Elizabeth, eyes wide. "Iran?"

An explosion. Then the ricochet of gunfire. _Chuh-chuh chuh-chuh-chuh. Stay down!_ Elizabeth's pulse quickened. _Breathe in, hold, breath out._ She swallowed her sip of coffee and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, concealing the barest tremor of her lips. "I can handle that."

Emilie nodded, but her gaze held on Elizabeth for a long second before she looked away and surrendered the page to the heap between them. Her finger trailed down the list, passed a question, and then scooted back. "It's likely that they'll mention your parents and how their…"

"Death?" Elizabeth offered, and a deep ache billowed through her chest. _Why can no one say it?_

Emilie lowered her gaze. "…shaped your life. Are you happy to talk about that?"

"Happy isn't the adjective I'd use," Elizabeth said, "but I'm prepared to discuss it."

A blush crept through Emilie's cheeks, and she shifted on the couch. She turned the page. Then paused. "There is one thing that I wanted to bring up." She tapped a rose pink fingernail against the line highlighted at the bottom. "The summer of 1984…"

"What about it?" Elizabeth sipped on her coffee.

Emilie gave a stilted shrug. "I don't know."

The coffee cup chimed against the saucer as Elizabeth set it down. She eyed Emilie, and the younger woman's blush deepened. "You don't know?"

Emilie's gaze darted all over the place as she rambled. "I have a friend who works on the show and he just said something about a hospital admission in 1984—"

Elizabeth's stomach lurched. _You spent the summer with me in London; that's what you'll say if anyone asks._

"—but he wouldn't say anything more than that, just that they were planning to ask about it and—"

Elizabeth surged up from the sofa. Hand on her hip, she paced towards the door.

"Is…is there something wrong?"

Elizabeth pinched her brow. She turned back to the couch. Emilie had risen to her feet and hovered like a lost schoolgirl, too timid to ask for help from a passerby. Elizabeth stared at her, hard. "And he didn't say anything else, this friend of yours? The hospital name, the dates, _the_ _ward_." _Please not the ward._

Emilie shook her head. "No, ma'am." She chewed on her lip. "If…if this is a problem…"

 _Damn right it's a problem_. "It's confidential." Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek as she shook her head to herself. "They shouldn't have access to my medical records."

"I understand…" Emilie wrung her hands. "…but if the information is out there…"

Elizabeth's mouth formed a grim line. "It's only a matter of time." She nodded. "I know." She grabbed the door handle and hauled open the door. She leant out and shouted, "Blake."

Blake jumped up from his desk and fumbled with the button on his blazer as he hurried over.

Elizabeth looked back to Emilie. "Thank you for your time, Ms Harston. Have Blake take your details, and I'll be in contact if I need anything else."

Emilie froze to the spot, as though she had strayed onto the path of a pressure-release land mine, but Blake swooped in and ushered her away, and she stumbled out into the main office, her gaze fixed on Elizabeth, her expression stuck in a perfect question of: _What did I do?_

Elizabeth swung the door shut and leant back against it. Her heart pounded, a staccato against the peal of silence. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. _You spent the summer with me in London. Don't let this define you._

* * *

 **October 1984**

 _Tick, tick, tick_. The indicator beat out the time as the car slowed and curved onto the driveway that wound its way through the grounds. The gravel crunched and prickled beneath the wheels, and Elizabeth's stomach clenched. 'Houghton Hall'. The name was emblazoned in bold white letters across the maroon sign. The car sailed between the two stone pillars and eased along the track towards the red brick building that loomed ahead.

Elizabeth's aunt glanced at her. "I've told the school that you spent the summer with me in London. That's what you'll say if anyone asks. Do you understand?"

Elizabeth paused. _Summer in London_. It couldn't be further from the truth. "But—"

The car jerked to a stop. Elizabeth grabbed hold of the seat beneath her, her heart pounding. Her aunt turned to her, crimson lips drawn tight. "Elizabeth, listen to me." She jabbed a manicured nail at Elizabeth's chest. "You are a _woman_ ; you needn't give anyone anymore reason to think you're weak."

"But I don't want to lie," Elizabeth said. _There's nothing more valuable than the truth_ , her father had told her, _and it's a gift you can give for free_.

Her aunt shook her head to herself and let out an exasperated sigh. "You're gifted, Elizabeth, but it's naive to think that people won't judge you for this. Maybe one day…" Her expression softened, and she rested her hand against Elizabeth's knee. "Look, you have a chance now to make something of your life. It's time to put this whole _episode_ behind you."

Elizabeth's lips pressed into a taut line. She turned away from her aunt and stared out of the side window, through the row of poplars that lined the drive. In the silence, the toll of the bell rang out, as solemn as the knell that saw her parents to their graves. Perhaps her aunt was right, perhaps that's where that summer belonged, hidden beneath the earth until flowers grew atop and people no longer cared what had nurtured them from underneath.

Her aunt's hand retreated to the steering wheel. As the car pulled away again, and the tyres skidded over the gravel, she murmured, "Please, Elizabeth, don't let this define you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 **April 1984**

"Will," Elizabeth shouted. "Don't let them do this! Will!"

But Will stood in silence, his gaze buried in the dusty earth that surrounded the porch. He scuffed his shoes against the wooden boards. His mess of blonde hair had fallen across his face, but beneath his cheeks tinged pink. Ashamed. Ashamed of what she had become.

"Don't let them do this," Elizabeth shouted as her aunt and uncle bundled her into the backseat of the car. She struggled against them, but her limbs were weightless, and they moved like feathers governed by the breeze. "Will." She pressed her hands against the cool glass, and it fogged beneath her touch. "Will." But he wouldn't even meet her gaze, the monster she had become. "Will, I hate you!" Bitter tears stung her eyes and rendered the last image of her brother a blur.

"There's no need for that," her aunt said, and she gave a tut. The car rolled away down the drive, and the gravel rasped beneath the tyres. "This is for your own good, Elizabeth. These people can help you."

"I don't need help," Elizabeth said. Why couldn't they see that? "I need to be in school."

"Just look at yourself." Her aunt snapped, and she twisted around in her seat. She eyed her slowly, gaze dripping with disdain. "School can wait." She tutted to herself and turned back to face the front. "What's six months compared to the rest of your life?"

* * *

 **Present Day**

Will. He was the only one who knew. But he hadn't breathed a word about it since the day Elizabeth was released. _Shame_. Elizabeth's cheeks burned even now to think about the way he had looked at her with such pity, such shame. But even he wouldn't be dumb enough to tell anyone, right? He hadn't referred to it even once, not as what it was, not even as _London_. But somehow, someone had found out, and as she had said to Emilie, that meant it was only a matter of time.

Elizabeth pushed herself away from the door, strode across the office and snatched the phone from her desk. She wedged it against her shoulder as she punched in Will's number. Then she turned around and leant back against the edge. Her fingers drummed against the wooden top.

 _Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring_. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me," she said. "Do you have a minute?"

"For you I have two." Will's smug smile dripped through his voice.

Had dread not strung her stomach in its noose, she might have rolled her eyes. "I need to know…" She twisted the telephone cord around her finger. "Have any reporters contacted you…about me?"

"The world doesn't revolve around you, Lizzie."

Her hand stilled, and the cord recoiled. "Just answer the question, dumb-ass."

"No," Will said, "but if they do, I'll be sure to tell them how well-mannered you are."

The noose slackened— _Thank God it hadn't come from Will_ — but only for a moment before the stranglehold returned, twice as tight. _If not him, then who?_

The levity of his tone evaporated. "Is something wrong?"

She shook her head. Her voice hitched. "Nothing's wrong."

"You're using your stressed voice."

She levelled her tone. "No, I'm not." But her lower eyelid juddered.

"I can hear your eye twitching."

A flush of heat surged up her neck. "That's not even possible."

"Look, Lizzie, if something's happened—"

"Goodbye, Will." And she slammed the phone down. She stared over at the stack of papers that fanned across the couch. The highlighted line stared back at her: The summer of 1984.

* * *

"Hey, Blake." Elizabeth stepped out of her office.

Blake pivoted towards her in his chair, the phone clutched to his ear. He clunked it back into the cradle and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, she cut in.

"I need you to look into something for me. There's a hospital in Virginia—"

Blake grabbed his notepad and plucked a pen from the pot at the edge of the desk.

"The Lowfield. I want you to contact them, see if there've been any data breaches; records stolen, files hacked, thefts…anything that could have led to information getting out."

Blake jotted it down. "Of course, ma'am." If the request surprised him, he didn't show it. "Was there anything else?"

"That's all." Elizabeth retreated a step towards her office, but Blake called her back.

"Um…ma'am." He pointed to the phone. "That was the White House. The president has asked to see you…something about the Italian minister refusing to sign—"

"Until he's stared down my blouse?" Elizabeth flashed Blake a taut smile.

Blake floundered. "I think the phrase they used was ' _Sweeten the deal_ '," he said, and he almost winced as the words fell from his mouth, "but yes, ma'am."

Elizabeth groaned. She ducked into her office and grabbed her coat, and then she strode towards the elevators.

Blake called after her, "I'll have the cars brought round."

* * *

Elizabeth stepped out of the Oval Office and refastened the second button of her blouse. Russell followed a pace behind, his nose buried in his phone. "I'm sorry about that." He rubbed his forehead. "The guy's a lech, but—"

"We need the deal." Elizabeth nodded. _The sacrifices she made for politics_. Though what about that other sacrifice: the country, her family, Henry—her heart tweaked—finding out about summer 1984? _People will judge you for this, Elizabeth, they'll think you're weak. It takes a lifetime to build a reputation, but you can flatten it in an instant._

"Do you have a minute?" Russell asked, and he motioned towards his office.

"Sure." Elizabeth stepped inside.

Stevie was perched on the chair behind her desk, but she jumped up as Russell and Elizabeth entered. "Mr Jackson, Mom—" Stevie blushed and lowered her gaze. "—I mean Madam Secretary." Her face flushed more crimson with each word. _So she wasn't the only McCord who found it difficult to compartmentalise._

"Hey, baby." Elizabeth gave her a warm smile.

Stevie hurried after them as Russell nabbed a doughnut from the tray on Adele's desk and led the way into the office proper. She hovered in the doorway, and the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot reminded Elizabeth of when her daughter was just three and she had found her trying on a pair of her heels—a foal testing its legs for the first time. "Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee," Russell barked. He placed the doughnut down his desk, and then shot Stevie a look over his shoulder. "And none of that low fat milk crap. It tastes like sewage water."

Stevie turned her wide eyes to Elizabeth. Half plea for help, half asking for her order. Elizabeth shook her head, her voice soft. "No thanks, I'm fine."

Stevie nodded and shut the door behind her as she left.

"So." Russell stretched out the word. He leant back against the edge of his desk and eyed Elizabeth— _It was like a mongoose sizing up a cobra_. "How did the meeting go with Emilie?"

Elizabeth settled into the blue leather armchair beneath the grandfather clock and swung one leg over the other. The clock tocked out her pause. _Tock, tock, tock_. "Fine."

"Just _fine_?" Russell's tone sharpened. He shook his head to himself, and his hands found his hips. "Elizabeth—"

Her neck jarred at the way his voice grated over her name.

"—if you're going to do this interview, you need to be prepared. This isn't some policy deal that you can just _wing_ —"

Elizabeth shot him a sharp look. Because that was what she did: _wing_ her way through everything.

Russell glanced towards the closed door and lowered his voice. "If you're going to run for president, the public need to get to know you, and not just the off-the-cuff you, but the neat, polished, presidential version of you."

Elizabeth sank back against the cushion. "I really don't see why the public need to know about my private life." She tossed one hand up. "I mean, who cares what my first dog was called?"

"The public cares," Russell said. His tone shot up, utter exasperation, as if she were failing to comprehend even the most basic of sums when he was trying to teach her calculus. "The vast majority of the electorate couldn't give a crap about your policies, but tell them a fluffy story about you and your arm-candy husband on your first date and they'll lap it up. You're not just selling them leadership; you're selling them a lifestyle, something they can believe in, something they can aspire to, something that makes them feel warm and fuzzy inside." His voice cracked. "What part of this whole politics game don't you get?"

 _Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock_. Outside, a telephone trilled and echoed into the silence of the office. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at him. "Are you done?"

"Look." Russell massaged his brow. His tone had calmed. "You are how we secure Dalton's legacy, you are how we continue to make a real difference to this country, to the world. All I'm asking is that you do the interview, play nice, tell them what they want to hear." He shook his head and let out a kind of strangled laugh. "Is that really too much to ask?"

"I'm just not comfortable with some of those questions," Elizabeth said. Well, one of those questions. Anything relating to the summer of 1984.

"Then get comfortable. Unless…" Russell's eyes narrowed on her. "Have you got something to hide?" With each tock of the clock, Russell's eyes widened. He raised one finger. "Because if you do—"

Elizabeth clutched the armrests, her fingernails digging into the leather. "I've got nothing to hide." Though perhaps something she'd rather remained buried, deep, deep down: a part of herself lost to the darkness of the soils and withered by the passage of time.

 _Tock, tock, tock_. "Good." Russell gave a curt nod. He opened his arms: a questioning gesture. "Then what's your problem?"

 _Knock, knock_.

Russell eased away from the edge of the desk. "You're doing the interview, Bess. You've got six days to prepare." He wrenched open the door.

"One coffee, full fat milk," Stevie said. She stepped inside and set the cup and saucer down on the long table in the middle of the room. She turned and glanced to Elizabeth. "Um…Blake's looking for you." She tilted her head to the door. "He's just outside."

Elizabeth nodded. "Thanks, sweetheart." She stood up and strode towards the door, but Russell caught hold of her arm.

He dipped in close, his voice a harsh whisper. "Remember, the media make a frenzy of piranha look like guppies on parade. If they get one whiff of weakness…" His gaze lowered as he shook his head to himself. "I know you don't exactly have fond memories of Iran—"

 _No, really?_ Elizabeth tugged her arm free. "Russell, you don't need to worry about Iran."

"Six days, Bess," Russell called after her. "Be prepared."

* * *

"Ma'am, I've just spoken to the hospital," Blake said. He hurried along at Elizabeth's side as she strode through the corridors of the White House. "It took a while, but I managed to get through to an administrator on…" He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. "…Lady Margaret Ward."

Elizabeth's stomach dropped. She pulled Blake to one side. White House staffers sailed past, greeting her with warm smiles. She forced a smile in return, though it could be nothing better than grim. When the chatter and the thud of footsteps had gone, she turned back to Blake. "And?"

"They said there was a recent data breach when they were digitising old records."

Elizabeth pulled at her blouse, creating pockets of air as a clammy sweat spread across her skin. "Do they know what type of information was leaked? Was it just admission records or—"

Blake shook his head. "It was all of it: notes on admissions, treatments, ward observations, anything they had recorded."

Elizabeth's heart felt like it had stopped.

Blake's brow pinched, and his gaze lowered to the ground. "The lady said that it was the psychiatric ward that was mainly affected." He met Elizabeth's gaze, and then his eyes widened—pure horror. "God, imagine if the notes from my childhood therapist were leaked. I'd never be able to leave my apartment again." His gaze sharpened on Elizabeth, a flash of concern. "Ma'am, are you okay? You've gone awfully pale."

Elizabeth swallowed. She rested one hand against the wall as the world around her swam as though she were on a waltzer, being hurled through a haze of giddy laughs studded with pinpricks of light. "I'm fine." She grimaced. "Probably just my blood sugar crashing."

Blake looked uncertain, but only for the flicker of a second. Then he pulled up one of the blue cushioned chairs from the edge of the corridor and encouraged her to sit down. "This is why I tell you to have protein with your carbs. You need to balance—"

"Just grab me a doughnut from Russell's office, and I'll be fine." When he hesitated, she waved him away. She raked one hand through her hair and then leant back, and with her head resting against the wall, she closed her eyes.

 _Lowfield Hospital, Lady Margaret Ward, April-October 1984_.

So the notes were really out there—all of them, all of those memories she had long since forgotten, that had faded like the remnants of a dream into the background of her mind—and one journalist had already found them. It was only a matter of time. Six days to _get comfortable_ with the world knowing. Six days to tell her family. Six days until their perception of her changed. _It's naive to think that people won't judge you for this. They'll think you weak. Please, Elizabeth, don't let this define you. You'll say you spent the summer with me in London._ London, summer 1984.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 **Present Day**

Back in the office, Elizabeth slumped down into her chair. The early afternoon light caught the net curtains and grazed through the room with its diffuse orange glow, like the last peachy rays before the sun dipped below the horizon. She stared hard at the phone. It stared back. All she had to do was call. All she had to do was to say: _I struggled after my parents died_. Henry had been nothing but understanding in the past, and always patient—patient as she fought for the words to express just how deep that grief cut. But _Lady Margaret Ward_? Her stomach clenched, and nausea oozed through her veins. The person she had become wasn't her, wasn't even part of her; it was an _other_ fastened by a single stitch to her soul. She didn't understand it herself, so how could she ask him—or anyone else—to understand?

Elizabeth picked up the handset and cradled it against her ear. Her finger trembled as she dialled Henry's number. _Ring-ring, ring-ring_. She swivelled round to face the photos frames on the desk behind. Herself with a newborn Jason nestled against her chest, Stevie and Alison sat on either side. It hadn't bothered her, not even then, as her body had ripened and bloomed to accommodate each new life; but then again, it had never been about food or weight or size. Numbers. Rules. Control. _Perfectionism and now your parents…it was a disaster waiting to happen_.

 _Ring-ring_. "Hello?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth. Her heart pounded. _Say it, Lizzie, just say it_. "Hey." More of a breath than a word. "Are you busy?"

"Hey, babe." Henry's smile shone through his voice. "I'm just about to head into class." Pause. "Is it important?"

 _More than you could know._ Elizabeth shook her head, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I…" … _need to talk, need to tell you something, there's something you ought to know…_ "…No." _Chicken._ "I'll see you later." She swallowed, her throat tight. "I love you."

"You too."

She pivoted back to the desk and hung up the phone.

 _Why can't I just tell people?_

 _Because soon this episode will be behind you and no one will need to know. Tell people now, and this will define you; but keep it to yourself, and we can forget that this ever happened at all._

To forget: To fail to remember. To cease to think of. To inadvertently neglect to mention, bring or do. By the time she had met Henry, she had all but forgotten. But now that she remembered, what was she supposed to do?

* * *

"Good night, guys." The front door sighed shut behind Elizabeth. "I'm home," she called out, and she dropped her bag onto the table in the hall. Laughter bubbled over from the kitchen, followed by the rise and fall of voices that undulated through the dining room and into the lounge. She kicked off her shoes, abandoning them at the bottom of the staircase, and then wrestled off her trench coat and draped it over the bannister. Her whole body ached, but the day was far from done. _Time to_ _compartmentalise._

She padded through to the kitchen. The aroma of garlic and tomatoes enriched the air and mingled with the cosy golden glow of the lights. Her stomach grumbled. She fixed her smile. "Something smells good."

Henry and the kids were sat around the table in the living room; Henry at the end nearest the stairs, Alison opposite, Stevie with her back to the kitchen, Jason on the far side. Sauce-smeared plates rested in front of them. When Henry looked up, he caught her eye and smiled. "Hey, babe."

Elizabeth scooted round the table. She clutched Jason's head in both hands and planted a kiss to his crown whilst he flapped her away and squirmed. After kissing Alison and Stevie too, she stood behind Henry, rested her hands against his shoulders and dipped down to kiss his cheek. "Hey, you." She nodded to the plates. "What's for dinner? I'm starving."

"Dad made lasagne," Stevie said. "From scratch." She rested her elbow against the table, chin balanced against the heel of her palm. Her eyes glittered with the echoes of laughter as her gaze darted between her parents. "There's a plate in the microwave."

Elizabeth squeezed Henry's shoulders and raised her eyebrows at him. "You made lasagne _from scratch_?"

Henry shrugged. "Well, I rolled out some dough, made the sauces, threw it all together, then shoved it in the oven."

Elizabeth shook her head to herself as she walked back through to the kitchen. She shot him a look over her shoulder before opening the microwave. "You have way too much time on your hands." She snatched up a stray fork from the island counter.

"I was going for thoughtful…" Henry said as she settled down into the seat next to his. His hand slipped beneath the table and found her thigh. "…romantic." He squeezed.

"And then went ahead and ate without me." Elizabeth gave him a wry smile. "Guess that makes it a romantic meal for one." She turned to the kids. "So, how was everyone's day?" She shovelled a forkful of lasagne into her mouth, and the richness of the tomatoes and the creamy béchamel danced on her tongue. She closed her eyes and moaned. "God, that's good." And Henry's grip on her thigh tightened.

Stevie's eyes widened, and she shot Elizabeth a disapproving look. "I think you and the pasta need to get a room."

"I would get a room with this pasta," Elizabeth said through a second mouthful, and Henry's hand eased a touch higher. "Seriously, though—" She looked to each of the kids in turn. "—how was everyone's day?"

Stevie leant back in her seat, her gaze fixed on her pale pink fingernails as she tapped them against the tabletop. "Well—" Her fingers stilled, and she shot Elizabeth a look, about as unimpressed as the time she had to organise the holiday party all on her own. "—I had Russell Jackson going on at me all afternoon about making sure you prepare for your interview. As if just because we live in the same house it's my job to police everything that you do."

Elizabeth's stomach tightened. _So much for compartmentalising_. She put down her fork, chewed, swallowed and then grabbed Henry's glass of red wine. She took a long sip before setting it down with a clunk. She raked her fork over the sauce and scooped up another bite. "You tell _Russell Jackson_ to stop hassling me about it. I said I would prepare—"

Stevie held her hands up. "I don't want to get involved." Her tone spiked. "The two of you are worse than toddlers fighting over a toy."

Elizabeth sent her daughter an incredulous look. _Toddlers? Seriously?_

But before she could say anything, Henry drummed his fingers against her thigh. "What interview?"

"Just some profile piece," Elizabeth said. She kept her gaze on her plate so as to avoid his eye. "We're recording it on Tuesday, and Russell's keen to remind me that perception is everything." She buried her bitter chuckle in another swig of wine. "As if I didn't already know." She turned to Alison and Jason. "What about you two?"

"Well…" Alison's whole face lit up with her smile. "…one of my designs has been selected for the fashion show at the end of the semester." She rooted around in the bag at the foot of her chair and pulled out her sketchbook, and then she passed it along the table to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth wiped her hands down on a napkin.

"It's the dress at the end, the cerulean one…"

Elizabeth turned to the back and flicked through the pages, until—"Wow." Her eyes widened, and the breath fled her lungs. When she looked up at Alison, her daughter's uncertain smile had blossomed into one of pride. She raised her eyebrows at Alison. "You drew this?" She shouldn't be surprised by what Ali could do, not now, yet still it hit her every time. "It's incredible."

"I haven't finished making it yet," Alison said. "But I was hoping you'd all come to the show. I know with work—"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I'll find time." _Though perhaps work wouldn't be such an issue once everyone found out about 1984._ She handed the sketchbook back to Alison. Then she scooped up another forkful of sauce-drenched pasta. "It'll be good to do something as a family." _Then again, would they be the same family once_ … She silenced the thought.

"Well, I won't be there," Jason said, his expression perhaps a touch too smug— _just like Will_ , "because I'll be _en Paris_."

Elizabeth swallowed her mouthful. "It's all confirmed?"

"Just have to pick my roommate. I was thinking Jack, but then Tyson said that he snores, but Reece already said he'd room with Stephen, and Tom got into this body-building scene and is now a total psycho…"

Elizabeth's fork hung over the plate. Whilst Jason jabbered through the list of potential roommates, her mind drifted, like flotsam caught in a rip and hauled out to sea. _There is one thing I wanted to bring up: The summer of 1984._

* * *

 **April 1984**

"Hi." At the voice, Elizabeth glanced up from her bed. A girl with long dark hair braided into two neat plaits stood in the doorway. She offered Elizabeth a broad smile, and her green eyes sparkled. "You must be Elizabeth. I'm Alice; your roommate."

Elizabeth nodded. Then she turned back to the book in her lap. The words swam across the page and dissolved into her mind. She couldn't string two of them together let alone a whole sentence. If she'd still been in school right now, she'd be drowning.

"What are you reading?" Alice sat down on the bed opposite. It bore the same rough sheets and sea-green polyester blanket as all the beds on the ward, but Alice had brightened it with a multi-coloured throw. Elizabeth lifted the book to show her the cover. " _The Colour Purple_?" Alice said. "I heard about that, but it was banned from my school library." Her eyes brightened. "Can I read it after you?"

Elizabeth held the book out to her, bridging the narrow channel between their beds. "I can't concentrate on it anyway."

Alice nodded and drew her lips into a taut smile. "The fog does clear you know, once you start to recover."

Elizabeth studied her; her gaze raked over her from head to toe, as if Alice were a maths equation gone wrong, and she was looking for the slip up, the number that had hidden amongst her working. "You were the same?"

"Hard to tell, isn't it?" Alice's smile softened, the barest tinge of regret. "This is my second time here. Have you been here before?"

Elizabeth shook her head; if she had her way, she wouldn't be there at all.

"Well, hopefully you'll get it right first time round and won't need to come back."

* * *

 **Present Day**

Elizabeth stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. The lights in the reflection glared and fractured—dazzling stars of white. She rested her hands against the cool marble top and leant her weight into them. Slowly, she met her own eye. _Less than six days until the world knew. Best that he hears it from you._

The door creaked when she opened it, and the bulbs hummed and whined as she killed the lights. Henry had already changed into his boxers and an old tee, and sat atop the covers of their bed. A chill clung to the air, but he didn't seem to notice it. Never did. _I'll keep you warm_.

He set down his book on the bedside table, atop the growing stack, and watched her as she made her way to her side of the bed. She clambered onto the mattress, then scooted over to him and nestled against his side. He wrapped his arm around her, and she rested her head against his chest. _Thud, thud, thud_. The rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth from his body washed over her and filled her with a sense of calm.

 _It was easy, right? Just say it._ Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, the words dragging their way to the tip of her tongue, but before they could dive off the precipice, Henry murmured, "So, you liked the lasagne?" His voice was deep and bore the trace of his smile. He skimmed his fingers from shoulder to elbow, up and down, up and down her arm. "There's something sexy about a woman who enjoys her food."

Elizabeth froze. Something jarred in her mind. "You said the same thing to me on our third date." He had probably said it many times, though that was certainly the first, and that was the one that struck her right now. Dusky candlelight, the scent of garlic, a cosy booth. She pushed herself away from his chest, and propping herself up on one arm, she met his eye. "Remember? We went to that Italian place—"

Henry grinned. _So he remembered it too_. "With the huge bowls of pasta—" He arched his eyebrows at her. "—one of which you totally demolished, then we had—"

"Chocolate and coffee gelato for dessert." Elizabeth offered him a soft smile. "Then you were just sat there staring at me, so I said: _What?_ Then you smirked—" He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with one finger to his lips, unable to resist as her own smile bloomed. "—and you said: _Nothing—_ "

" _There's just something incredibly sexy about a woman who enjoys her food_." His eyes shone. They held the same awe they had that night, and her stomach fluttered in the same way too.

But then the flutter died, her smile dwindled, and her gaze fell away from his, down to where her hand rested against the pillow. Her hair swept forward into her face. What would he have said all those years ago if he had known?

Henry covered her hand with his own. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. "Babe? What's wrong?"

She shook her head, and the veil of her hair quivered. "It's nothing." She forced a smile. _It's everything. What would people think if they knew?_

Henry paused. In the background, the beat of music pulsed through from Jason's bedroom. "If it's about Jason and his trip, he's going to be fine."

Elizabeth met his eye. Hazel warmth flecked with concern. "But is it really safe for him to go on his own?" Her voice cracked. "I mean, shouldn't he have some security at least? There've been a whole spate of attacks—"

"Babe—" Henry squeezed her hand. "—this is probably his last chance to have a trip as a normal-ish kid. We've gotta let him have that."

Elizabeth nodded, though her heart sagged. Why did they have to grow up? Why did things have to change?

Henry cupped her cheek. He leant closer. "Hey, you know what else happened on our third date?" He nuzzled her nose, and his breath puffed against her lips. "Our first kiss." He nipped at the corner of her mouth. Then the other side too. And then he shifted onto his knees, and before she knew it he was lowering her onto the bed—and they certainly hadn't done _that_ on their third date.

She threaded her fingers through his hair as he kissed his way down her neck, and her breath hitched when he nipped at her collarbone. "Henry, I…" … _think we should talk_.

He stopped and looked up. "What is it?"

"I…" She scraped her nails over his scalp, drawing idle patterns, and in a flash they were back to where they were that morning, only now everything had changed. "…it's just…" _How to say it?_ "…I don't want anything to come between us."

"What do you mean?" He frowned, and then his eyes widened. "The presidency?"

"That…something else." Elizabeth shook her head, and her hair mussed against the comforter. She winced as she met his eye. "I just can't stand the thought that we might lose what we have." Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she let out a shaky breath. _God, this was so stupid. Why couldn't she just tell him?_

Why? Because she couldn't shake the thought that perhaps he would never have fallen in love with her, would never even have dated her, if he had known. And where would they stand after she told, or after it came out in the interview, or someone leaked it, or, or, or…? _Perception changes everything_. And there were certain things that you couldn't un-know.

"Hey." Henry shifted so that they were face to face. He stroked her hair, so gentle. "I love you, and nothing's going to change that."

Elizabeth grazed her nails over the nape of his neck, and he shivered beneath her touch. "Remember this morning, I said the universe was saying 'no'?" And it felt as though it had been determined to drive a wedge between them ever since. "Well, now I'm saying 'yes'." Her gaze flicked to his.

"Really?" His tone hiked.

To be enveloped in his scent, his warmth, his weight; his body so close to her own. She gave him a watery smile. "You had me at pasta."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

 **Present Day**

The predawn light seeped in through the curtains, bruised blues and purples, bitter and stark against the heat that lingered beneath the covers. Henry snored softly in his sleep, his breath ruffling against the back of Elizabeth's neck, the rise and fall as smooth and steady as the tide. And each breath that she took swam with the scent of sweat and Henry and sex. The thud of his heart against her back measured out the seconds as the alarm clock ticked over. 4:13. 4:14. 4:15. _There's something sexy about a woman who enjoys her food._

* * *

 **May 1984**

Elizabeth stared down at the mountain of cottage pie. Her stomach clenched, and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back. She wouldn't cry, she wouldn't let them see her cry. But as she raised each forkful to her mouth and choked it down, the dining room around her blurred and a sob escaped her. Then another and another. A dozen pairs of eyes prickled over her, and heat surged through her cheeks. How had she become this? How could a plate of food make her cry?

That evening, Elizabeth lay curled up in a ball on her bed, the thin polyester blanket draped over her. The lights in the room were dimmed, but the glare from the fluorescent strips in the hallway flooded through the open door.

A shadow fell across the room, and a moment later came Alice's voice. "Hey." When Elizabeth didn't reply, she sat on the edge of the bed and the mattress dipped beneath her weight. She laid one hand against Elizabeth's shoulder and held it there even when Elizabeth flinched. "It's never easy, but it does get easier."

Elizabeth snorted. Even that single huff of breath left her feeling drained.

"You know, I cried at every meal to start with," Alice said. "One time, a nurse gave me a double helping of rice by mistake and I just about lost my mind. I've never cried so much in my life. All the tears dried up, and then I was just sobbing."

Elizabeth propped herself up on the bed and then rested her back against the wall, her knees hugged to her chest. She patted the space beside her, and Alice shifted to join her.

"It always bugged me when people told me I just had to make more of an effort," Alice said, "but now I think I see what they mean."

Elizabeth turned her head to face her roommate, and she caught a glimpse of those vivid green eyes that gave the girl an almost witchy presence.

"If you push through, if you stop fighting yourself and instead turn all that anger against the voice, then there comes a point when it feels like a switch has flipped." She tapped the side of her head. "This starts working again, and you feel like you—the real you."

"But if I do that…if I do what they say…I'll lose control…" And that was all she wanted, to have a little control.

"Do you honestly think that you—Elizabeth—are in control now?" Alice's gaze sharpened, like shards of emerald that prodded Elizabeth and scratched away at her skin.

Elizabeth looked down, her gaze falling to her knees and the worn fabric of her jeans. She picked at the see-through patch until the fibres separated and formed a hole. "It feels like I'm in control when I calculate what I've eaten and what I need to burn." But when had food become an equation? And where was the joy that algebra used to bring?

"And you really think that's you doing that? Not the voice telling you to?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but then stalled. She pursed her lips and shook her head. She didn't know. With the fog in her mind, she didn't know anything at all.

"Tell me about Elizabeth," Alice said, and Elizabeth frowned. "The girl you were before. What was she like? What did she like to do?"

Elizabeth shrugged.

"Was she silent and sullen and so wrapped up in thoughts that she couldn't speak her own mind?"

A twitch of anger jerked through Elizabeth, but she shook her head.

"Did she spend hours and hours staring into space because she was too consumed listening to a voice?"

Elizabeth shook her head again.

"So what was she like? Tell me."

"Why?"

"Because maybe then you can find a way back to her, a way back to being you."

* * *

 **Present Day**

And she had found a way back to being herself. That was what mattered, right? And that girl—that _other_ —had been forgotten; a broken seed buried beneath the earth, never to grow, but to be thrust further and further into the darkness as the rest of her life layered on top and healthier plants bloomed.

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered open again. The numbers on the alarm clock had shifted. 4:21. A meagre snatch of sleep. Henry's grip on her waist tightened, just for a second, and her pulse raced. Five days left. She would tell him today. She would find a way.

Elizabeth prised Henry's fingers from her midriff, and she slipped out the side of the bed. Her skin tingled in the chill air, and a shiver shuddered through her. She waited a moment, watching her husband, and when he didn't rouse, she tiptoed through to the bathroom. The door shut with a soft click. She turned on the shower, and as the water gushed down, she began to peel off her clothes.

* * *

 **June 1984**

"Clothes off," Rachel said, and she closed the blind over the square window set into the door. The room was small, more of a closet really, with a set of scales at one end and charts tacked to the wall.

The floor felt as though someone had coated it in sand, and it scraped against the soles of Elizabeth's feet as she walked across to the far side. She tugged off her pyjamas and draped them over the grey plastic chair, and when the cool air bristled over her skin, she shivered and hugged her arms around herself.

Rachel shot her a look. "You know the drill, Elizabeth. Underwear too."

Elizabeth bit down on her lip and fought back the flood of heat that rushed to her face as she removed her crop-top and knickers and dropped them on top of her pyjamas. How many weigh-ins had she gone through now? Yet still the humiliation hit her every time.

"Right," Rachel said, and she motioned to the scales, "step on." Elizabeth closed her eyes and held her breath, counting out the Fibonacci sequence—the beauty of nature defined by numbers—until Rachel said, "All done."

Elizabeth hopped back down and scrambled to get her clothes on. As she did so, she caught sight of the number that Rachel had jotted down. Her heart both swelled and sank. She was one step closer to being herself again, yet something—perhaps the echo of the voice—told her she had done wrong.

Rachel followed her gaze. "Are you all right, Elizabeth?"

"I just—" Dr Hartwell said she had to open up more, to trust others with her feelings until she could manage them for herself. "—it's stupid, because I want to get better and I know that I need to gain weight, but every time I do, I feel like a failure."

Rachel motioned for Elizabeth to take a seat, and then she knelt in front of her and clutched her hand. "It's not stupid." She stared hard into Elizabeth's eyes. "What you're feeling is totally normal. You're doing so well—"

Elizabeth flinched: ' _well_ ', ' _good_ ', ' _normal_ ', so many words with different connotations now.

"—but this is the crucial point. This is where you need to fight back, to push through. And if you do that, you have a real chance of putting this behind you."

Rachel gave a long sigh. She shook her head to herself, and fronds of chestnut brown shimmied across her forehead. "I can't tell you how many women I've seen who go through cycle after cycle of recovery and relapse. It gets to the point that their true selves are no longer left, or are so buried by the illness that it defines them." She squeezed Elizabeth's hand, and under the glare of the fluorescent lights, tears glistened in her eyes. "You're a bright girl, Elizabeth. You have such a spark. Please don't give up now. I couldn't bear to see that happen to you."

* * *

 **Present Day**

Elizabeth crept down the stairs. The trace of garlic from last night's dinner staled the air, and the lamps in the living room steeped the lower floor in their hazy glow. She tripped over a pair of trainers that had been abandoned on the third step from the bottom, and with her heart thudding against her ribs, she grabbed hold of the banister. _Well, that would be one way to avoid talking about 1984_. "Jay-son," she muttered and swept the shoes aside.

"Hey." Stevie's voice came from the couch. She was curled up on the cushions with the grey woollen blanket wrapped around her like a shawl, a folder balanced open in her lap. "You're up ridiculously early."

"I could say the same about you." Elizabeth leant over the back of the sofa and kissed the top of her daughter's head before smoothing down her hair.

"Did the White House call?" Stevie looked up at her with wide eyes. Being summoned before five in the morning could never be a good thing.

Elizabeth shook her head and offered her daughter a reassuring smile. "Couldn't sleep."

"Me neither," Stevie said. "So I thought I'd make use of the time and read up on this report that Russell was talking about—" She laid her hands atop the file in her lap. "—but I think I'm just giving myself eye strain." She pinched the bridge of her nose.

Elizabeth chuckled. "You are such a McCord." She rested her hand against Stevie's shoulder, and her expression sobered. "What's up?"

"That obvious?" Stevie winced.

"Well, if that—" Elizabeth motioned to the report. "—hasn't sent you to sleep, something must be wrong." The only time such dossiers failed to lull her to sleep was when the country teetered on the brink of world war. She rounded the end of the couch, and as Stevie tucked her feet out of the way, she sank down onto the middle cushion. She squeezed Stevie's knee. "Talk to me."

Stevie closed the file and dropped it to the floor with a _whump_. Her gaze remained buried in her lap for a long time before she met Elizabeth's eye, and even then she was barely able to hold her gaze. "So, I was browsing through Facebook…"

"As you do."

Stevie nodded, and a slight blush suffused her cheeks. "…and I saw through a mutual friend that Jareth's just gotten engaged…again…" She pursed her lips and tugged them to one side.

Elizabeth's heart sank. "Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry—"

But Stevie shook her head, her brow creased into a deep frown. She tried to smile through it, but it turned into more of a grimace. "It's stupid because I know that it never would have worked out between us, but it still feels like…I don't know…" Her eyes glistened. "…like that should have been me."

Elizabeth rubbed Stevie's knee, as if she were a child again with a scrape that she could soothe away. "I know it doesn't help right now, but it will get better. You'll find someone else—"

"Someone whose identity isn't classified?" Stevie's eyes hardened.

Elizabeth let out an inward sigh. _Dmitri. Why did it always come back to Dmitri?_

Stevie closed her eyes, and her face softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's okay." It would be a lie to say that she didn't blame herself and Henry for what had happened; well, perhaps Henry more than herself, for his inability to just let it go. He was forgiving of most things, but Dmitri…that had always been a sticking point.

"I guess I'm still angry at Jareth," Stevie said. "It felt like he hid all this stuff about himself when we were first dating, and then it's only after we were serious that it all started to come out, and it made me feel like he was a totally different person, someone I never would've dated if I'd known." Her voice sharpened, cutting through the shadows of the living room. "I mean, all that stuff about his family, and their titles, and the inheritance, and the way he was with his friends in Oxford…I just feel like that's the kind of stuff he should've told me."

The whir of the refrigerator kicked in, its drone an undertone to the clatter of trash cans as the neighbourhood foxes scavenged for scraps. Elizabeth looked down at her lap as she shook her head to herself, and her lips tugged into a sorry smile. "You can't know everything about a person."

"I realise that," Stevie said, "but there are some things that you ought to know."

Like her admission in 1984? But that wasn't the same. By time she met Henry, it wasn't a part of her anymore and it wasn't something that was going to crop up again, not like in-laws with titles or snobbish friends or issues of inheritance, and she certainly hadn't lied to him about it or hidden it from him; she barely ever thought of it, and over time she didn't think about it at all. Until now. But what would he think when she told him? _Five days. You need to find a way to tell him_. His perception of her would change, and she wouldn't be the same person anymore.

"Mom?" Stevie's voice was thick with concern.

Elizabeth looked up, jolted from her daze.

Stevie's brow was pinched, her lips pursed. "Is something wrong?"

Elizabeth toyed with the tassels that edged the grey blanket, tugging at them and teasing them apart. She tried to force a smile, but her lips quivered and twitched, and it fell away.

"Is it the interview?" Stevie shifted on the cushion. She hunched forward and hugged her knees to her chest. "I know Russell's concerned about Iran—"

Elizabeth snorted. Why did people always assume it was Iran? One teeny panic attack in public and people thought a single word on the topic would shatter her like a pane of sugar glass.

"Okay, not Iran…" Stevie's frown deepened. Her gaze flickered past Elizabeth, towards the shelves behind the kitchen table. Her eyes widened. She chewed her bottom lip. "Then…is it your parents?" She studied Elizabeth, her gaze raking over every pore. "You never really talk about them, at least not to us."

Elizabeth's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "That's because it still hurts." _Like nothing you would believe; like something I hope you never know._

Stevie hugged her knees tighter. "How come you never visit them? Their graves I mean."

Elizabeth shook her head to herself, and wisps of hair fell forward to tickle her cheeks. "Because I hate the thought of them being there, trapped beneath the ground. It makes me feel like I can't breathe and—" Her chest tightened and squeezed every last drop of air from her lungs. She closed her eyes. _In, two, three. Hold. Out, two, three_. When she opened her eyes again, she clutched Stevie's hand and mustered a faint smile. "Promise me that when I die you'll scatter me on the breeze. Or maybe grow one of those trees, you know, the ones with the ashes."

Stevie's mouth opened and closed, tongue floundering. "Um…wow…things just got morbid."

Elizabeth chuckled. "Welcome to my five AM thoughts."

"I know it's really none of my business, but maybe visiting them would help." Stevie shrugged. "People say it can be cathartic."

 _Catharsis_. Maybe that's what she needed. A way to confront and release those forgotten memories, those voices from the past. Maybe then she would find the strength—and the words—to face the fears instilled in her by stigma, perceptions, society, her aunt.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

 **Present Day**

A charcoal quilt smothered the sky, and a dull breeze stumbled and swayed over the roof of the State Department. Elizabeth stepped up to the edge and rested her hands against the cool stone wall. Beneath, the stop-start of rush hour traffic choked the streets and the crush of pedestrians crawled along the sidewalks. Car horns blared, and the clog of exhaust fumes lifted, thickening the air like summer heat rising from the tarmac.

* * *

 **July 1984**

"Shhh!" Elizabeth held one finger to her lips as both she and Alice giggled. Lights out was half-an-hour ago, but the eerie off-white glow of the fluorescent strips still diffused through corridor. Elizabeth leant out of the doorway and glanced up and down the hall. No sign of the night staff. She crept out of their room and beckoned Alice to follow.

They scuttled along the hallway towards the double doors that formed the entrance to the ward, their giggles stifled in their hands. The doors to the other rooms were all ajar, but if anyone saw them, they kept to their silence. Secrets, camaraderie: the currency of the ward. When they reached the end, they ducked into the alcove that housed the patient phone and stood with their backs pressed to the wall.

"What now?" Alice whispered. Wisps of dark hair had escaped from her plaits and fanned out around her face.

"Just wait," Elizabeth said, and she nodded towards the doors. One good thing about the ward: it was as reliable as her father's watch. The thud of her heart beat out the time: one minute, two minutes, three—Then sure enough, the doors swung open and Dr Griegs stepped onto the ward. He sailed past their hiding place, and both Elizabeth and Alice crushed themselves against the wall. Elizabeth held her breath tight in her chest, and then, when Dr Griegs was just a few strides down the corridor, she darted out and caught hold of the door before it could slot back into its frame. She grinned at Alice—a flash—and then they were gone.

The air blew brisk over the rooftop, and it lilted with the trace of smoke. Each breath burned through Elizabeth's lungs and sent a buzz rippling through her veins. She opened her arms wide and leant back, as if she could embrace the sky. The stars shone down on her. Freedom, such freedom.

"I'm going to miss you," she said to Alice, and she looked to her friend with a sharp smile, "but I'm glad that you're leaving."

"Me too," Alice said, and her green eyes sparkled.

Thank God she hadn't seen Alice when she was at her worst; she couldn't imagine those eyes empty and dull, not when they held such life now.

"What are you going to do when you leave?" Elizabeth said. "Now that the whole world's before you?" And looking down over the grounds of the hospital, it felt as if the whole world stretched before them, waiting for them to return to it and make it their own.

"Finish high school," Alice said, "then apply to university." She paused, and her smile turned tentative. "I thought maybe I should become a doctor, so that I can help others like us."

Elizabeth's chest swelled with pride and the surge sisterly love. Where would she be now without her roommate, without those words that had comforted her and goaded her and forced her to face harsh truths? She didn't know what she would do with her own life, not yet, but one thing was clear: "I think you should too."

* * *

 **Present Day**

Elizabeth let her head fall back, and she stared up at the shroud of ash and slate. No stars, not then, and the freedom had faded too. That girl on the hospital roof had no idea what life would bring her.

Just two years later she would go to UVA and meet a guy who would make her laugh and smile and cry—in the best way. He would break her heart, but only for three days. They would marry in spring, and their vows would be accompanied an almighty downpour—but neither would care as he carried her sodden to the honeymoon suite and proceeded to strip the wet lace from her skin.

He would go on active duty, whilst she found a home in the CIA, and they would write to one another— _I love you, I love you more_. And when he came home for good, they would learn each other anew, and he would surprise her with stories he had never told before. Pieces of his life, fragments that she fitted together, a mirror to reflect his soul. But she would hold the greatest surprise of all. _A baby?_ She would nod, lip pinned between her teeth. And he would kneel before her and kiss her belly, then look up at her with such awe. _Our family_. And before she knew it, she would give him two more.

She would leave the career she loved, because the fear of losing him hurt like nothing she had known. And she would resent him for a while, but once she settled into their new lives—her job in teaching, their horse farm of a home—she would let it all go. _Let's try for four_ , she would say one night, and the pain when God said 'no' would bring them closer than ever before.

She would be mucking out the stables when the president would turn up at their home. He would tell her that she could _affect true change in the world_. And this time her husband would say 'yes', and any lingering resentment would go. Spies, cults, a dirty bomb, her efforts to thwart a coup; they would risk their morals, their marriage, their lives, yet still return to their _circle of two_. And one day, far in the future, she would stand on another roof, and the world would stretch out before her. Possibilities, power, potential that her sixteen-year-old self never imagined she would hold. And one summer would not define her. But what would her life have been if she had told?

"Ma'am?" Blake's voice. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. Blake stood at the top of the stairs, clinging to the doorway like a child at the edge of an ice rink. He took a tentative step onto the roof, though one hand remained touching the door. "You have a meeting in five minutes."

Elizabeth frowned. "What meeting?"

Blake's expression faltered. _And what was that—a wince?_ He let out a long sigh. "Russell Jackson requested that we schedule time for interview prep. Jay and Daisy—"

"Seriously?" Elizabeth leant back against the wall, arms folded across her chest. "He's hijacked my schedule now?"

Blake's mouth hung open. He looked at her almost pleadingly. "I'm just the messenger."

"Who found time in my schedule." She shot him a glare and then pushed herself away from the wall, her trench coat catching the breeze and billowing behind her. She made her way back into the stairwell, Blake just a step behind. She turned her face to him as they walked. "Well, your penance can be calling back that hospital. I'd like to visit this weekend. In private."

"Of course, ma'am." Blake's footsteps clattered after her. "At the risk of intruding…do you mind if I ask why?"

Elizabeth paused at the bottom of the stairs, and resting her hands against the door, the wood cool beneath her palms, she tugged her lips into a taut line. "Let's just call it catharsis."

* * *

The gloom from outside leached in through the net curtains of the office, a grey murk to contend with the amber glow that shone from the ceiling and the walls. Daisy stood up from the couch, Jay from the armchair opposite, but Elizabeth waved them back to their seats.

She took her own seat on the other end of the sofa, and as she leant forward to pour herself a cup of coffee from the pot, her gaze darted between them. "You are aware that you don't work for Russell Jackson and that we have plenty of more important things to do, things that don't involve pandering to people's desires to hear fluffy titbits about my life." Though there was nothing fluffy about a stint on a psychiatric ward. Russell Jackson would regret setting up this interview yet.

Daisy and Jay shared a look, before Jay said, "Yes, ma'am."

"Then why are you doing his bidding?" Elizabeth rested back against the cushions and crossed one leg over the other, away from Daisy.

"Because as much as it pains me to say it—" Daisy drummed her fingers against the edge of the notepad that she clutched in her lap. "—he's not wrong."

Elizabeth shot her an incredulous look—Russell Jackson's _not wrong?_ —but Jay leant forward and cut in. "People's perception of you is just as important, if not more important, than your policies, ma'am," he said. He flapped one hand towards the television in the corner. "Just look at the Nixon-Kennedy debates."

Elizabeth took a sip of coffee and then clinked the cup down against the saucer. "Firstly, this is an interview, not a televised debate." She shook her head to herself. "And secondly, rumours that I'm planning to announce are just that—rumours."

Daisy and Jay shared that look again, as if to say she was crazy to think that people didn't know. Though of course they knew. It was DC. Everyone knew everything, right?

" _Rumours_ aside," Jay said. "It isn't the sixties anymore either. It's the age of celebrity and social media and so many other wonderfully nightmarish things. The public don't just want policies; they want a piece of you, something to relate to. They need to know that they can trust you."

Daisy nodded along and then turned to Elizabeth. "It's about being likeable, but strong."

"A strong likeable woman, huh?" Elizabeth held her coffee cup to her lips. "It might be easier to find a meat-eating vegan."

Jay stared at her, hard. "Okay…I'm sensing some resistance…but here's the thing…" He leant even further forward, right at the edge of the seat. His tone sharpened, and his hand—fingers splayed—bounced in the air for emphasis. "This interview is happening—Russell Jackson could not have made that more clear—and the worst thing that could happen is that you go into it unprepared, that the interviewer catches you off guard and that you either freeze or say something that you can't come back from."

Elizabeth pursed her lips. The _tick, tick, tick_ from clock on the mantlepiece diffused into the silence. She set her coffee cup down on the table and then settled back against the cushions, arms folded across her chest. She met Jay's eye. "I think you and I have very different definitions of ' _worst thing_ '."

 _Like admitting on national television that my brain went haywire after my parents died and I spent six months on Lady Margaret Ward, and everyone thinking that I'm crazy and fragile and weak, not to mention what my family will think, or my husband realising he married a stranger. But guess what? If I don't come out and say it, some tabloid will splash it across the front page anyway: 'McCord's Secret Shame', 'Is she Fit to Serve?'._

Elizabeth shrugged and then threw her arms up. "Look, I'm just going to be myself, and the public can take it or leave it, because I'm sure as hell not pretending to be someone else just to drum up support because the White House want me to run."

Jay pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. He looked up at Elizabeth. "You're really not a politician, are you?"

"Never said I was."

* * *

That evening, Elizabeth was curled up on the window ledge in her and Henry's bedroom, feet up, knees drawn to her chest. The lights were off, surrendering the room to the deep blue haze that mingled with the licks of shadows. A slight chill crept in through the window frames; it ruffled the net curtains and prickled over her skin. It was strange that, the way that the cold air could elicit the same sting as the hot sands of Iraq.

The buzz of the television downstairs and the echoes of her children's laughter filtered up, and as she leant her head back against the wall—eyes slipping shut—the sound surrounded her, like a thin gauze that masked her from the world.

* * *

 **August 1984**

A scream ripped down the corridor. It slithered up Elizabeth's spine and shuddered through her neck. She dropped her notepad and pen down on the end of her bed and tiptoed across the blue vinyl flooring to the door. With her finger wrapped around the edge of the frame, she peeked out.

"I hate you! I hate you!" Four nurses were dragging a painfully thin girl towards the room nearest the nurses' station. "Get off me!" The girl screamed again, and then she turned to Elizabeth, her head lolling, her face gaunt, a void behind her ash grey eyes.

Elizabeth shrank back from the door. Her heart pounded, and a cool sweat spread over her skin. She would never let herself be like that. Never again.

* * *

 **Present Day**

"There you are."

Elizabeth jumped. "Christ, Henry." She buried her face in her knees as her heart hammered against her ribs. Her breath shook, and she winced at the glare as he flicked on the lights. At the muffled click of the door closing, she turned her head to face him.

His brow was furrowed, gaze studying her as he crossed the room. "Everything all right?"

Elizabeth nodded. She swung her legs over the side of the ledge and made space for him to stand between her knees, and once settled there, he cradled her head in his hands and pressed a kiss to her crown. With her hands on his hips, she nestled her forehead against his chest and breathed the scent of sandalwood, amber and cedar. His presence felt like the final stretch of an endless journey home. _Just tell him_. His fingertips traced the ridge of her spine, and she shivered and arched into his touch. _Just say it._ "Henry—"

"Did you speak to Stevie earlier?"

Elizabeth drew back, and her gaze flicked up to meet his eye. "Yes." She frowned. "Why?"

"She just seemed a bit down, that's all." Henry slid his hands up to her shoulders and then smoothed them down over her arms until he caught hold of her fingers and laced them with his own.

Elizabeth shook her head and sighed. When Henry squeezed her hands, she returned her gaze to his. "Jareth got engaged." And just saying the words made her heart sink again. "She found out on Facebook last night."

Henry's lips pressed into a taut line. "Well that's tough."

She raised her eyebrows, and a bitter laugh escaped her. "It sucks."

He let go of her hands, climbed up onto the ledge next to her and then rested his palm against her thigh; the warmth radiated through the thin cotton of her sweatpants, a comfort against the chill from the windows behind. "How's she taking it?"

"She's still mad at him." Elizabeth's lips tugged to one side. "Maybe a little mad at herself." She trailed her fingers over his, up and down, up and down. "I think she feels like she wasted all that time."

Henry shrugged. "Maybe if she had spent a little _more_ time getting to know him in the first place…" _Getting to know a person, like telling him what had happened just three summers before you met_. And when Elizabeth's fingers stilled and she turned to look at him, he said, "Come on, babe. She does have a tendency to jump into relationships, then wonder why they fail."

"Is that what you think?" She frowned at him and barely managed to conceal the hitch in her voice. "That it was always destined to fail?" _Are we destined to fail?_

Henry twisted round, his hand retreating from her thigh. The gap between them opened. A chasm borne in centimetres. He folded his arms across his chest. "I think that if you're going to share a life with someone, you ought to know more about them than their name and their coffee order."

Elizabeth slid down from the ledge. She shook her head to herself as she paced across the room, and then hands on hips, she spun back to face him. "She knew more about him than that."

Henry clenched his jaw. "She hadn't even met his parents."

A wave of white-hot heat flooded her veins, and her fingernails bit into her hips. "So that's your criteria for a solid marriage? Having met your partner's parents. Well thank God you didn't marry an orphan."

The thud of her pulse surged through her ears and shook the silence. The chasm between them yawned, her words echoing off the sides—down, down, down—until they impaled themselves on the rocks at the bottom, and at last, died out. Body still burning, she sank down onto the end of the chaise longue, her head in her hands.

"Okay," Henry spoke slowly, "I thought we were talking about Stevie, but clearly I was mistaken." There was a thump as he jumped down from the ledge, and then the cushion dipped as he perched next to her. "Do you want to tell me what this is really about?"

She shook her head, and the word escaped as soft as a breath. "No."

He let out a terse sigh and then rested his hand against the small of her back. "I love you—" He kissed the tip of her shoulder. "—and I'm here when you want to talk." He rubbed firm circles through her tee, the cotton rough against her skin, and then his hand stilled and he kissed her again, just as delicate as before. "I bought you some gelato. It's in the freezer if you want it." He stood up and retreated towards the door.

But before he disappeared, she called after him, "Henry."

He turned back to face her, expectant.

"I'm going to Virginia this weekend."

Pause. "Do you want me to come?"

She shook her head. "I need to go alone."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

 **Present Day**

'Lowfield Hospital'. The car slowed as it rolled onto the tarmac drive that stretched with the endlessness of an airport walkway towards the grey stone building at the end. Silver birches lined the track, their slender white trunks jutting from the earth like the bars of a cage. Elizabeth's stomach clenched, and for every tree that they passed, it cinched a little tighter, another notch on the girth. _Three days. Three days until everyone knows._

The car pulled to a stop outside the stone steps that led up to the arched doorway. A flash of the day she first arrived back in April 1984 appeared in her mind. The image settled and blended into the view before her; one superimposed over the other, until they melded. So much, yet nothing at all, had changed.

* * *

 **September 1984**

The office was painted soft pink: the colour of candy floss as she roamed the fairground with Will, the sugar roses her mother had placed on her birthday cake, the strawberry ice cream she had asked for before…

"The anniversary of your parents' death is coming up—"

Others said ' _accident_ ' but Dr Hartwell insisted on calling it what it was.

"—how are you feeling about that?"

The gnawing void in Elizabeth's soul strained its jaws wider.

"Any urges to restrict?"

Elizabeth chewed her lower lip. "I have the thought sometimes, but I don't think I would act on it." The leather creaked beneath her as she shifted on the couch. "It feels like I can recognise that that's the illness speaking, not me."

"Good," Dr Hartwell said, and she gave her a warm smile. "That shows just how far you've come." She jotted something down on her notepad.

Elizabeth's gaze followed the pen. The heavy scent of patchouli perfume powdered the air and made the walls feel closer somehow, as if they were edging inwards at an imperceptible rate. "Will those thoughts ever go away?"

"They'll get less and less frequent." Dr Hartwell rested her arms on top of the notepad and hid the text beneath. "I can't predict whether they'll ever go away completely—they do for some people."

"And for others?" Elizabeth's heart beat in time to the _tock, tock, tock_ of the grandfather clock that stood by the door.

"Other patients of mine say that the thoughts crop up from time to time," Dr Hartwell said, "but they just acknowledge them and then they go away again. They no longer distress them, no more than ' _maybe I'll wear yellow today_ '." Her lips tugged into a reassuring smile. "We caught your illness early, thanks to your aunt, so I see no reason why you shouldn't make a full recovery and put this all behind you."

Elizabeth's whole body lightened at that, and the walls eased away. Perhaps she could escape this; perhaps she could claw her way out and return to the world unscathed.

"I'd like us to start thinking about preparing you to return to school, how we can manage your perfectionist qualities and your need for control."

A buzz rippled through Elizabeth's chest. "I can go back to school?"

Dr Hartwell mirrored her smile. "You can join your brother next month." Then she added, "I'd still like to see you during the holidays mind, just to check in on how you're doing."

But who cared how many 'check-ups' she'd have to have? So long as life went back to normal, or at least as normal as it could be now.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Elizabeth opened the car door with a clunk and stepped out onto the tarmac. The air still held the trace of a bonfire, and the smokiness blended with the delicate fragrance of the pansies that burst from the flowerbeds at the foot of the grey stone wall. Above, row upon row of arched windows watched over her, all blackened like the eyes of a spider.

The aged oak door of the entrance shuddered open, and a short, blonde-haired woman with thick-framed glasses stepped out. She offered Elizabeth a shy smile, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and then extended her hand. "Madam Secretary, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Sasha. I spoke to your assistant—"

"Blake." Elizabeth nodded. She climbed the stone steps and shook Sasha's hand. "Thank you for agreeing to this visit; I know it's a rather unusual request."

"Not at all," Sasha said, and then she beckoned for Elizabeth to follow her inside. "Actually, Dr Baines was pleased to hear that you'd be coming."

"Dr Baines?" Elizabeth repeated, her brow pinching.

Sasha signed her in at reception and then grabbed a guest pass from behind the desk and handed it to Elizabeth. The pale peach of her lipstick offered a certain softness to her smile. "I'll take you to her office. If you'd like to follow me."

The office was no longer soft pink, but now as yellow as daffodils, and the scent of patchouli had gone, replaced by the rich embrace of coffee and the tang of citrus. Everything about it was brighter, lifted somehow, as if someone had thrown open the windows and filled it with the breath of spring. Elizabeth tapped on the open door, and the woman—Dr Baines—swivelled round in her chair. She had long dark hair, piled into a messy bun, and vivid green eyes that crinkled at their edges as she smiled.

"Alice?" The breath fled Elizabeth's lungs. " _You're_ Dr Baines?"

Alice beamed back at her, her eyes alight and as witchy as ever—some things never changed. "Elizabeth," she said. She stood up and enveloped Elizabeth in a hug, and they could have been sixteen again, on the roof, their last night together as roommates before Alice returned to the world. "I can't tell you how glad I was when I heard that you were coming today."

She motioned for Elizabeth to take a seat on one of the cream armchairs that had ousted the worn leather couch. Elizabeth shrugged off her coat and draped it over the back of the cushion and then settled down. She nodded as Alice gestured to the pot of coffee on her desk.

"So, you became a doctor after all," Elizabeth said. _Way to state the obvious, Lizzie._

"And you became Secretary of State." Alice handed her the cup and saucer. She poured her own cup, then sat back down in the black mesh chair and swivelled round to face Elizabeth. "I have to admit, my path back here was rather circuitous…" Her expression turned pained.

Elizabeth had lifted the cup to her lips, but she set it back down with a clink. "Circuitous?"

"I made the mistake of disclosing my admissions and was barred from applying to medical school." The corners of her lips twitched. "That led to another relapse, but fortunately I caught it early, and after a short stay on another ward, I was able to study to become a nurse. Once they relaxed the rules, I retrained as a doctor." Her lips broadened into a smile, and she gestured to the room around them. "And here I am now."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "They barred you from medical school?" Perhaps her aunt was right, perhaps it was better that she never told. _What would they have thought at the CIA?_

"People weren't so accepting of mental illness as they are now—not that the world's perfect, but it's certainly improved." Alice sipped on her coffee. She swallowed, and as she lowered her cup, her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Provision for people with eating disorders on the other hand, well that's still an issue." She opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then stopped. She shook her head, and the smile that had faltered widened again. "So what happened to you after you left?"

 _You have a chance now to make something of your life. It's time to put this whole episode behind you._ Elizabeth's lips pressed into a taut line. "I moved on." Husband, kids, career; she was one of the lucky ones.

The green of Alice's eyes sharpened. "Then what brings you back?"

"I'm due to do an interview next week, Tuesday actually—" Her chest tightened— _just three days._ "—and it turns out that someone got hold of my file."

"The data breach?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Just having it mentioned again brought up all those memories, things I haven't thought about in years, decades." A light breeze tumbled in through the open window and ruffled the papers on Alice's desk. It carried with it a hint of smoke. "If people are going to find out, I'd rather tell them myself than have it leaked to the world—" _Anything for a little control._ "—but it turns out that I don't know what to say." _I fell ill; I wasn't myself; I couldn't cope; I needed the control, I needed the rules, I needed to numb the pain._ "I thought coming back here might help, it might help me face that fear."

"What fear?" Alice asked. She studied Elizabeth the same way that Dr Hartwell had all those years ago.

Elizabeth stared down at the surface of the coffee, watching the bubbles of the bloom that congregated and burst around the edge. "The fear of what people will think, the fear that their perception of me will change." Her lips quirked, a derisive smile. "I tell myself it's just that, fear, and I never let myself be ruled by my fears but—"

"It's the truth."

Elizabeth froze. She stared hard at Alice. "What?"

"People's perceptions of you will change," Alice said. And Elizabeth felt as though she had lurched over the edge of some great abyss. "I can see that isn't what you wanted to hear, but I believe that nothing prepares you better than the truth." Alice set her coffee cup down on her desk and then stood up and retreated to the window. She leant back against the ledge. "I've always been open about my illness, and for every person who has accepted me, two more have been unable to understand. Some distance themselves or disappear completely, others change the way they act. I've had boyfriends who monitored my food, or friends who assumed that I'd never eat more than a salad. Subtle changes, but changes nonetheless."

Elizabeth's palms turned sweaty, and she set her coffee cup down on the floor before it could slip from her grasp. "And how do you deal with that?"

"When I was younger, I spent ages trying to prove that I was ' _normal_ '—" Alice made the accompanying air quotes. "—thinking that if only they could see that, things would go back to how they were before they knew." She picked at the white paint of the window ledge, and flakes fluttered to the floor. "But over time I learnt that stigma runs far deeper than that, that there's so much fear and uncertainty when it comes to disorders of the mind." She gave a defeated shrug. "And I learnt that either you put up with people treating you like that and always holding you at a distance, or you accept that perhaps they'll never understand and you let those people go."

 _Let people go?_ But what about those who were bound to you? What about those who you would never choose to live without? "Do you regret telling people about your past?" _Will I regret this too?_

Alice's gaze turned distant. "No." Her eyes sharpened again, trained on Elizabeth. "I feel like my illness shaped me and it's not something that I want to hide. Sometimes our experiences, even the most painful ones, can help others. Take my patients for example." She gestured towards the door and the hallway beyond. "They find it a comfort to know that I've been through the same thing and that I now live a normal life. It gives them hope. It gives them the courage to seek help and to find the strength to push through."

Elizabeth's lips tugged into a small smile. "You gave me hope when we were on the ward."

"And you can give people hope too," Alice said. "Having someone like you speak out…It would make a huge difference."

Elizabeth's smile faded. "But I wasn't that ill—"

"There's no such thing as 'not ill enough'." Alice's tone sharpened. "You suffered. You got help. You got better." She lowered her gaze and shook her head to herself. Strands of dark hair escaped her bun and fell forward into her face. "I wish all of my patients were admitted as quickly as you were, then they might stand a chance of achieving real recovery. Instead they're told that they're 'not sick enough', again and again, until they're on death's door." Her knuckles blanched as she gripped the window ledge. "Then they spend all their time here gaining the weight and don't get a chance to do the real psychological work, and then they're discharged before they're ready. And guess what?" She gave a bitter laugh. "They relapse, again and again and again, this endless cycle, and soon the disorder defines them."

 _Please, Elizabeth, don't let this define you_. Elizabeth's throat bobbed. "I'm sorry."

"No," Alice said, and her voice softened, "I'm sorry." She took a deep breath. "It's just so frustrating to deal with this system every day, and to see how it's hurting people, yet it never changes." She pushed herself away from the window ledge and sank back into her chair. "I've seen how you've overhauled foreign policy, and I just wish someone would come along and overhaul the health system too."

But as Alice had already said, when all this came out, people's perception of her would change. _It's about being likeable, but strong_. But what would happen when people thought her weak? _Remember, the media make a frenzy of piranha look like guppies on parade. If they get one whiff of weakness…_ How much sway would she hold then?

"I'm sorry if I haven't given you the reassurance you're looking for—"

Elizabeth shook her head and forced a smile. "It's fine." _Three days._ And she still needed to find the words she had to say. _Three days._ Then would things ever be fine again?


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

 **Present Day**

The fields and trees zipped by and disappeared into the fading light as the car sped along the road. The air was close, heavy with the scent of peppermint candies and cologne. Elizabeth rested her head back, her coat draped over her like a blanket. The cool glass fogged beneath her breath. And her mind swam with snatches of thought.

 _Whether you like it or not, this interview is happening. People's perceptions will change. The information is out there; it's only a matter of time. There's something sexy about a woman who enjoys her food. Some people distance themselves or disappear completely, others change the way they act. Maybe if she spent a little more time getting to know him in the first place. It's naive to think that people won't judge you. A strong likeable woman? Maybe one day…_

* * *

 **October 1984**

 _Tick, tick, tick._ The indicator beat out the time as the car slowed and curved onto the driveway that wound its way through the grounds. The gravel crunched and prickled beneath the wheels, and Elizabeth's stomach clenched. 'Houghton Hall'. The name was emblazoned in bold white letters across the maroon sign. The car sailed between the two stone pillars and eased along the track towards the red brick building that loomed ahead.

Elizabeth's aunt glanced at her. "I've told the school that you spent the summer with me in London. That's what you'll say if anyone asks. Do you understand?"

Elizabeth paused. _Summer in London_. It couldn't be further from the truth. "But—"

The car jerked to a stop. Elizabeth grabbed hold of the seat beneath her, her heart pounding. Her aunt turned to her, crimson lips drawn tight. "Elizabeth, listen to me." She jabbed a manicured nail at Elizabeth's chest. "You are a _woman_ ; you needn't give anyone anymore reason to think you're weak."

"But I don't want to lie," Elizabeth said. _There's nothing more valuable than the truth_ , her father had told her, _and it's a gift you can give for free_.

Her aunt shook her head to herself and let out an exasperated sigh. "You're gifted, Elizabeth, but it's naive to think that people won't judge you for this. Maybe one day…" Her expression softened, and she rested her hand against Elizabeth's knee. "Look, you have a chance now to make something of your life. It's time to put this whole _episode_ behind you."

Elizabeth's lips pressed into a taut line. She turned away from her aunt and stared out of the side window, through the row of poplars that lined the drive. In the silence, the toll of the bell rang out, as solemn as the knell that saw her parents to their graves. Perhaps her aunt was right, perhaps that's where that summer belonged, hidden beneath the earth until flowers grew atop and people no longer cared what had nurtured them from underneath.

Her aunt's hand retreated to the steering wheel. As the car pulled away again, the tyres skidding over the gravel, she murmured, "Please, Elizabeth, don't let this define you."

Will was waiting on the steps outside the main entrance. His blonde hair had grown longer, a messy fringe falling in his eyes. His shirt was untucked, and the knot of his tie was askew, but he wore a smile so bright that it flooded Elizabeth's chest with a golden light.

Elizabeth opened the car door and then stood facing Will. He waved, and his smile turned bashful, as though they were meeting for the first time. "Um…hi…" He looked down at his shoes as he scuffed them against the stone.

"Hi," Elizabeth said. And which one of them took the first step, she didn't know, but within a breath they were in each other's arms. She clung to him so tight, and then tighter still as tears threatened to prick her eyes. "I missed you," she said, and she swallowed back the thickness in her throat.

"You too." Will let out a deep breath that trembled through them both. Then he stepped away as if the hug had never happened. "So, how are you?"

Such a basic question, yet full of so many meanings. "I'm fine," Elizabeth said, and she glanced back at their aunt who watched them through the car window, her thin eyebrows ever so slightly raised. Elizabeth turned to Will and tugged her lips into a taut smile. "London was fine."

Will bit down on the inside of his lip. And the reckless boy now held fear in his eyes. "Just don't go back again, not even for the weekend. Okay?"

"I promise," Elizabeth said. "I won't even think about it." And she wouldn't, she wouldn't become that person again, not when there was so much more to life. She nodded to the large oak doors. "Show me around?"

Will nodded, and his face lit with his smile. "You're going to love it here, Lizzie."

And maybe she would. Maybe with Will there and that _episode_ behind her, this place would feel something like home.

* * *

 **Present Day**

"Matt," Elizabeth called through to the front seat. "Change of plans. Take me to my brother's house."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Elizabeth rang the bell three times then rapped at the door. _Come on, Will._ _What was taking so long?_ She shivered and hugged her coat tighter. Seconds later, Will wrenched the door open. He stared at her, his brow furrowed in a deep frown. "Lizzie, what the—"

Elizabeth held up one hand and silenced him. "I didn't go to London in summer 1984." The words spilled out so fast that they melded together.

Will looked at her as if she were half-mad—and perhaps she was—but then his expression thawed. His lips tugged into a sorry smile, and he nodded. "I know."

"Well," she said, and she gave a stilted shrug, "I want to talk about it." Her voice cracked, and heat prickled up through her cheeks.

Will's gaze lingered on her, and she could almost see the fourteen-year-old boy who had stood on the porch that day, when their aunt and uncle had hauled her from the house. His lips drew into tight line, and he gave a half-nod. "I'll grab my coat."

The moon hung over the park, ghostly grey amongst the shadows of the clouds, and the lanterns tinged the air with a hazy, almost golden, glow. Elizabeth and Will walked side by side, the DS agents a safe distance behind. Her heels tapped against the paving stones, a metronome to their silence.

"So," Will said. He sat down on one of the green metal benches, let out a huff of breath that fogged in the air and then looked up at her. "Are we going to talk?"

Elizabeth lowered herself onto the seat beside him. She stared at her shoes, her hair falling forward like a veil between them. When she spoke, her voice was harsh, grating against the breeze that stirred the air. "I'm recording an interview on Tuesday, and they know where I was in 1984. The hospital, the ward, my notes…everything." She shook her head to herself and then glanced at Will. "Apparently there was a data breach…"

Will frowned. He shrank back and folded his arms across his chest. His gaze raked over her, utter disbelief. "So that's why you called the other day?" His voice rose. "You thought I'd told them."

"Of course not," Elizabeth said—and thank God the darkness concealed the blush that warmed her cheeks. "Can we just stick to the point? My medical files, out there for the world to see." She gestured to the park around them, but the cold bit her fingers and she stuffed her hand back into her pocket.

"You did, didn't you?" He let out a bitter chuckle. "Christ, Lizzie…" Then he stood up from the bench, one hand rising to rub at his mouth. He turned back to face her, eyebrows raised, hurt flecking his eyes. "You honestly thought I would sell out my own sister—"

His gaze broke from hers, and they fell into silence as a man jogged past. The beat of music pounded through his earbuds, whilst his ragged breaths clouded the air and the reflective strips on his jacket threw off glimmers of light.

Elizabeth waited until he had gone, wound his way along the stone path and into the night, and then she said in a low hiss, "I know you wouldn't, Will." Her pulse thrummed, a steady _buh-boom, buh-boom, buh-boom_ that rippled through her body. "You haven't breathed a word about it since the day I left, you were so ashamed."

"Ashamed?" Will's gaze darted up and locked on hers. He shook his head as he frowned. "Lizzie, I wasn't ashamed."

Elizabeth's brow pinched. "What?"

"Our parents had just died." He stared at her hard, eyes glistening in the dim light, and then his gaze dipped to the ground. He ran one hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice was far softer than before. "I was afraid that I was going to lose you too."

Elizabeth's heart ached. _Oh, Will._ She opened her mouth, the words ready to leap from her tongue. _You weren't going to lose me_. But she closed it again and swallowed them down. He could have, quite easily, had Aunt Joan not nipped it in the bud. "How come you never said anything?"

Will shrugged. "Because I didn't think you wanted me to." He sat back down on the bench, closer now, thigh to thigh. "Plus Aunt Joan told me not to."

Elizabeth arched her eyebrows at him. "And you always did what Aunt Joan told you to?"

"She wasn't wrong, Lizzie. The stigma was real." He shook his head to himself. "She might not have looked after us, not like Mom and Dad, but at least she shielded you from that."

"And now?" Her tone spiked. "It's out there, Will." How many people had already read through her file, knew every sordid detail of her past? Things she hadn't even shared with Henry, things that were meant to be hers and hers alone. "Who's going to shield me now?"

In the pause, a hedgehog crawled across the grass on the other side of the path. It stopped and snuffled at a fallen leaf and then bumbled on.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. She leant her head against Will's shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was as subdued as the glow of the lanterns, and in the same way, it diffused into the night. "I went back to the hospital today. Thought it would help."

"Did it?"

"No." Her heart sank. Why couldn't Alice have just told her that everything would be fine? "And now I just feel even more lost and terrified."

"About what?"

"About what people will think…" _How they'll treat me when they know_.

Will shook his head, his cheek bumping against her. "It's not the '80s anymore, Lizzie. People are more open about their problems, and the public…most of the public…understand."

But there was a line. A line between 'acceptable' illness and something that people couldn't comprehend. To struggle was one thing, but to be admitted to a psychiatric ward…? Not to mention the difference between being a celebrity and being a candidate for the presidency. And it wasn't just the public who needed to understand.

"What about Henry?" she whispered.

"What about Henry?" Will said. Then he pulled away, freeing his shoulder from beneath her and forcing her to sit upright again. He twisted round, his gaze darting over her. His tone sharpened. "You didn't tell him?"

"Of course not." Her voice fractured, and she threw one hand up. "It wasn't an issue when we met—I barely even thought about it—and it certainly hasn't been an issue ever since."

"You need to tell him," Will said. "Before it comes out."

Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest, bunching her hands beneath her elbows and hugging tight. "I know that, Will."

"Then why are you sat here—" He opened his arms and gestured around them. "—in a park in the middle of night with me, rather than at home talking to him?"

"Because…" Elizabeth fought to hold his eye, but her gaze fell away.

"Lizzie."

"Because…" A flush of heat flooded her cheeks, whilst the cold air stung at her eyes. "What if he never would have married me if he'd known? What if this changes the way he thinks about me? What if I become a different person to him, a person he can't be with?"

Will stared at her for a long moment. "Okay. You really are crazy." Elizabeth glared at him and tried to shove his chest, but he swatted her away and then rested his hand against her knee. "For some unfathomable reason that man adores you. He's not going to care that you were ill when you were sixteen."

"But what if he thinks I'm fragile or weak? What if he treats me differently and things between us change?" That's what Alice had said. People distancing themselves, monitoring her food…She didn't want that. She just wanted everything to stay the same.

"You are many things, Elizabeth—" Will shook his head to himself. "—but weak is not one of them." He squeezed her knee, and though his gaze faltered, he still managed to look her in the eye. "You getting better—that's the proudest I've ever been of you. It takes a hell of a lot of strength to recover, even more to speak out. People will appreciate that. Henry will appreciate that. I appreciate that." Will stood up and held out his hand to her. "Now come on."

She trusted her hand to his and let him haul her to her feet. "Where are we going?"

"I'm going home," he said, as she linked her arm through his, "and you're going to talk to your husband."

They strolled together along the path, and the cage of DS agents moved around them. "But what am I meant to say?"

Will patted her arm. "I know it must be difficult when you have a speechwriter to construct all of your sentences for you, but sometimes the words don't have to be pretty; what matters more is just that you say them." He looked down at her and caught her eye. "Lizzie, he will understand."

* * *

Shadows swamped the house, and the only sound came from the motorcade engines that still hummed outside. Elizabeth slipped off her shoes and carried them with her as she padded up the stairs. She eased the bedroom door open and then stopped. In the glimmer of streetlights that snuck through the curtains, she could just about make out Henry bundled under the covers, fast asleep. He gave a soft snore, and she smiled. _Tomorrow. Let him sleep. She'd tell him tomorrow._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

 **Present Day**

 _BUZZZ. BUZZZ. BUZZZ._ Elizabeth jolted awake and snatched up her phone as it danced across the bedside table. In the dim grey light, she glanced at the screen, whilst behind her Henry groaned. Russell Jackson. She swiped to answer the call. "Hello?" Her voice was still thick with sleep—or lack of it—and she cleared her throat.

"We need you at the White House—now," Russell said in a deep growl. "The Russians are playing war games off the coast of Alaska."

Elizabeth's heart slumped. She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. _Of course they were_. She ran one hand through her hair. "I'm on my way."

* * *

Stood outside the door to the Situation Room, Russell punched away at the keypad of his phone, but he glanced up from the screen as Elizabeth approached, and catching sight of her, he paused. His gaze raked over her. "Geez, Bess. You look like crap."

"Thanks, Russell." Elizabeth forced a cheery tone and smile so wide that her cheeks ached. "I had a long day, and I've been up most of the night."

"Preparing for the interview I hope." Russell pushed open the door for her, and the buzz of voices rushed out. As she stepped into the glare of the artificial lights, he added, "The network asked to move the recording to tomorrow."

Elizabeth froze. She spun back to look at him. "What?" She was meant to have two more days, two more days to tell Henry—and God only knew how long this situation with Russia would take to resolve.

"I've already sorted it out with your staff." He motioned to the images that flashed across the screen at the far end of the room. "Let's get you caught up."

* * *

The hallway was dim by the time Elizabeth returned home, but the haze of lamplight drifted through from the back of the house. She clung to the bannister as she kicked off her shoes, her whole body aching from lack of sleep—not that spending the day in the sunless Situation Room helped. A steady beat thudded down the stairs, synchronised to her steps as she padded through to the kitchen. Discarded takeaway cartons cluttered the countertop. She picked through them, but uncovered nothing more than the aroma of sesame oil and five spice and a few meagre scraps.

Silent images flashed across the television screen in the den, and their glare illuminated Henry where he sat on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, gaze buried in a book. Elizabeth hovered at the end of the kitchen for a moment. She took a deep breath. _It's now or never…Lizzie, he will understand._

"Hey."

Henry lowered his feet from the table and twisted round. "Hey, babe." He offered her a warm smile and then placed the book down on the cushion of the couch. His smile withered at her expression though.

"Henry—" She held his gaze. "—we need to talk."

He nodded and then swallowed. The lightness in his eyes had gone. "I'm sensing that."

Elizabeth perched on the arm of the couch, but when Henry shifted further along the cushions, she eased herself down to sit next to him. She stared at her lap as she smoothed her palms over her jeans and purged them of the clammy sweat that had taken hold. Henry reached out, as if to cover her hand with his own, but then stopped, and his hand fell to the cushions.

The music in the background cut out, and the ensuing silence rang between them. Elizabeth cleared her throat, trying to rid herself of the clag of emotion that had cemented itself to her vocal cords. "Henry, when I was—"

"Mom!" Alison shrieked.

Elizabeth jumped, and her eyes snapped shut. She drew in a breath that shook its way to the bottom of her lungs, and then she groaned. " _Ali_."

Footsteps pounded down the stairs. She turned round and watched over the back of the couch as their daughter bounded down the final steps and into the living room. "Mom, I need your help." Alison skirted round the end of the sofa and plonked herself down on the coffee table. She scrolled through the screen of her phone, the glare lighting up every crease of her anxious frown.

"What's wrong?" Elizabeth said. Henry's gaze was still hot on her cheek. She edged her hand across the cushion until her fingers bumped against his, and then she tangled them together and squeezed. A silent promise— _Later._

"Look at this." Alison shoved the screen in Elizabeth's face, and Elizabeth reeled.

She took the phone from Alison and scrolled down through the images. Young women, pretty, perhaps a little thin. She glanced up at Alison. "What, exactly, am I looking at?"

Henry leant closer, his shoulder grazing Elizabeth's as he peered at the screen too.

"Our tutor put Paola in charge of booking the models for the fashion show, and those are the ones she's picked." Alison snatched her phone back and set it down on the coffee table. "I don't want to make clothes for stick insects; I want to makes clothes for real women." Her brow furrowed, and her eyes begged Elizabeth for a solution.

"Can't you just provide your own model?" Henry said.

"I tried that, but Paola refused. Apparently having a normal woman amongst these prepubescent mannequins will 'ruin the aesthetic'." Alison rolled her eyes.

Elizabeth hesitated, a tug of nausea at the pit of her stomach. "Well, what about your classmates?" she said, and she gestured to the phone. "If they feel the same way—"

"Everyone loves Paola—" Alison's eyes flashed for a second before her gaze dipped to the floor. She shook her head, and the fronds of her fringe scattered across her brow. "—and no one's going to speak out against her."

"Well, someone's got to be the first," Elizabeth said. "You should try talking to them."

"And stage a coup?" Alison arched her eyebrows. "Because that always works out so well."

Elizabeth shrank back against the cushions. Ali hadn't meant…Yet still it hit her. The blast. The shockwave hurling her to the floor. The _chuh-chuh chuh-chuh-chuh_ of gunfire. Glass. Bullets. Blood. So much blood.

Henry squeezed her hand, and her vision snapped back into focus. "Then take it up with your tutor," he said. "I'm sure she'll understand."

"She loves Paola too." Alison groaned. "It's impossible."

 _Impossible?_ Elizabeth shook her head. "I spend my life dealing with one impossible situation after another, and trust me, this isn't impossible." She swallowed. "Look, if they insist on you using a model you're not happy with, then you just have to refuse to include your piece in the show." She threw one hand up. "Take a stand."

Alison's expression crumpled. "But then no one will get to see my dress."

"Yes, they will," Elizabeth said. "Put together your own photo shoot and post it on your blog." She motioned to the phone still resting on the coffee table. "Explain why you decided to boycott the show, and I guarantee that people out there will agree with you, and they'll respect you for what you've done."

"You think?" Alison's eyes brightened a little, a tentative optimism.

"I know." Elizabeth edged forward in her seat and laid her hand atop Alison's knee. "You have principles, Noodle, and you should stand by them. Your designs are stunning, but your beliefs and your willingness to act on those beliefs will make them powerful."

Alison's lips curled into a small smile, and a blush tinged her cheeks. "Thanks, Mom." She hugged Elizabeth and then retrieved her phone and hugged Henry too. "Night, guys."

"Goodnight," Elizabeth called after her. She remained hunched forward, hands folded beneath her chin. Henry rubbed her lower back, tracing circles through her shirt. The touch tingled: comfort, yet also a reminder— _It's now or never. You need to tell him._ "Henry—" she began.

But at the same time, Henry said, "I don't get it."

Elizabeth twisted round. She frowned at him. "Don't get what?"

"All these young women, driven to starve themselves, and what for?"

Elizabeth froze. Ice trickled through her veins. _What for? What for?_ To make themselves feel powerful in a hopeless situation, to find control amongst the chaos, not to mention all the societal pressures, or the fact that it wasn't a choice that any woman or man, girl or boy made, as if they woke up one day and decided to become ill. Elizabeth's heart pounded, and ice turned to fire.

Henry's gaze flicked up to meet hers. His hand stilled against her back, but he toyed with the hem of her top. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Elizabeth shook her head and pushed his hand away. "Forget it, Henry." Then she surged to her feet and retreated up the stairs. The _thud, thud, thud_ of her heart struck in time with her steps. He didn't get it; he didn't understand at all.

"Elizabeth." Henry's voice pursued her up the staircase, but she didn't stop.

She headed straight into their bathroom, slammed the door shut behind her and then leant back against the cool wood. Eyes shut, she pinched the bridge of her nose. Why did his have to come up now? Why couldn't it have stayed where it belonged? Back in the summer of 1984.

There was a tapping at the door; it juddered through Elizabeth. She let out a deep sigh that ached through her chest, and then let her head fall back against the wood. "Go away, Henry."

The _drip, drip, drip_ of the tap rang through the pause. "I want to talk to you." The door muffled Henry's voice, though it did nothing to smooth out the gnarls of concern, and when the handle rattled, Elizabeth pressed her weight further into the wood. "Elizabeth….please…"

"Just give me a minute." Elizabeth snapped. The handle stilled, and seconds later, the pad of footsteps ebbed away into the bedroom.

Elizabeth pushed herself away from the door, and resting her hands against the marble top, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her heart sank a little. Russell was right: she did look like crap. Deep circles hung beneath her eyes, and the usual spark amidst the blue had gone. But things would only get uglier. The recording was tomorrow, but how was she meant to tell Henry the truth after that? _I don't get it. Some people will never understand._

When Elizabeth emerged from the bathroom, Henry was perched on the end of their bed. His brow was creased, and the lines of his face were more prominent than before; the difference between a print and a sketch. He eased to his feet, took a step towards her, but then stopped. "Elizabeth, please just tell me what's wrong."

He reached out to catch hold of her arm, but she brushed past him and strode to her side of the bed. "It's nothing." She plucked the pillows from atop the covers, and one by one, she tossed them in a heap on the floor.

"It's obviously not nothing." Henry's gaze raked over her, causing the hairs to prickle at the back of her neck.

"Just leave it, Henry." She dragged back the covers and climbed into bed. With her back to him, she curled up and hugged the duvet around her. The scent of washing powder stung in her nose—the brand they only bought when she trusted Henry to do the shopping alone.

"Elizabeth, you need to talk to me. You need to tell me what's going on."

But what was there to say? How was she meant to tell him that she had been far worse than those girls on Alison's phone? She had done to herself what he admitted he couldn't understand.

"Fine, don't talk." Henry's tone sharpened. "But you're being incredibly unfair." The mattress dipped behind her. "Whatever this is, you can't just take it out on me. I'm trying my best to be here for you, but you keep shutting me out. I have no idea what's going on, and it feels like I can't say or do anything without you getting mad at me."

Elizabeth pulled the covers over her head. Mainly to block it out, but maybe also because it irked him when she refused to engage. Raging arguments, insults hurled, the passionate back and forth—that was his family's life, his background. But in the silence after her parents' deaths, she had learnt that sometimes the only response to conflict was to shut down. God, how it had rattled him the first time he had raised his voice at her and she had met him with nothing but a stone-cold glare.

"Oh, real mature." The duvet did little to muffle Henry's voice.

There was a long pause and then a sigh. Then, after seconds that felt as though they spun themselves out into hours, there came the click of a switch and the soft whinge as the lightbulb in the lamp faded. The mattress shifted. And slowly, they succumbed to the silence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

 **Present Day**

The late afternoon light spooled in through the windows and suffused the entrance hall with an autumnal haze. The DS agent placed Elizabeth's bag down on the table and then nodded his goodbye. Elizabeth murmured a ' _Thank you_ ' in reply, the door clunked shut, and the house tumbled into silence.

Henry was sat behind his desk in the study, a stack of essays in front of him. He watched her, but the moment she caught his eye, his gaze darted back to the page. He lifted his bottle of beer from the table and took a quick swig before setting it down with a _thunk_. Even as she stepped towards him, his gaze clung to the text.

Elizabeth stood next to him, towering over him. She waited, then—"Henry." He hunched over, one hand rising to rub the back of his neck. Elizabeth arched her eyebrows at him. _Who was being immature now?_ "Henry, you haven't even got your glasses on so I know you're not reading that."

His jaw clenched. He dropped the essay to his desk and then swivelled to face her. He leant back in the chair, and meeting her eye, he took another swig of beer. Elizabeth held her hand out for the bottle. He clutched it close to his chest for a moment, the dull brown glass mute in contrast to the glint of his wedding ring, but when she curled her fingers towards her palm, he relented and passed it to her.

"Are the kids home?" She took a long sip, the beer cool and smooth as it dragged over her tongue. He nodded, and she handed the bottle back to him. "Please will you get them. There's something I need to show you."

He pivoted back and forth in the chair, eyeing her as though this were a game of Risk and he was deliberating what move to make next. "I'm meant to be working." He gestured to the heap of papers on his desk.

Her pulse surged. "You're pissed at me, I get it, but you wanted me to talk and that's what I'm trying to do. So will you please just get the kids and come sit in the lounge."

He stared at her, eyes wide, the belligerent look swept from his face. He placed the bottle down and nodded.

She took a deep breath. Then paused. Her tone softened. "Thank you."

Whilst the thud of Henry's footsteps disappeared upstairs, Elizabeth retrieved the recording from her bag and carried it through to the lounge. She placed the disc in the DVD player and then skipped through the interview until she reached the point just after they had discussed her parents' car crash. The image froze on screen—herself and the interviewer sat across from each other in matching blue armchairs. A cosy feel as they broached the most uncomfortable of subjects.

"Hey," Stevie said as she stepped off the bottom of the stairs, "is this your interview?"

"Yeah." The word came out as a rush of breath. "The recording at least." She gestured for Stevie to take a seat on the sofa, and then Alison and Jason too as they joined them.

"Can't we just watch it when it airs on Wednesday?" Jason said. He sank down onto the cushion at the far end of the sofa. "I was kinda busy."

Alison snorted. "Facebook-stalking Piper, you mean."

"I wasn't." Jason's cheeks flooded red, his lips disappearing into a pout, and he lunged across Stevie to take a swipe at Alison.

"God, Jason." Stevie pushed him off as he squashed her against the cushions.

Alison scrambled up onto the arm of the couch, out of reach. She rolled her eyes at her brother. "You're such a psycho…Just because she's moved on and found herself a new boyfriend—"

Jason jumped to his feet. "You know what? I don't have to put up with this." And he stormed towards the stairs, almost bowling into Henry as he strode down the last step.

Stevie glowered at Alison. "Don't be so insensitive."

"How's that being insensitive?" Alison scowled at Stevie. "It's true."

Stood by the armchair next to the couch, Elizabeth shook her head to herself and pinched the bridge of her nose. How hard was it to get them to watch a simple video? She lifted her fingers to her lips and gave a high-pitched whistle that cut through the room. "Everyone, stop—right now."

Stevie and Alison ceased bickering and looked up. Jason froze on the second step and turned back to face the living room.

Elizabeth pointed to the couch. "Jason, sit down." And as Henry hovered near the bottom of the stairs, she turned her gaze on him. "Henry, you too."

Henry held her gaze as he steered Jason towards the sofa and guided him to the seat right at the end, as far from his sisters as possible. Then he took the spot next to Stevie and patted her knee. Elizabeth lowered herself onto the armchair, the remote control still clutched in her hand. She stared at it a long moment, and in the lull, the tension in the air thickened. She looked up, and her gaze darted to each of them in turn. Four sombre expressions. Four worried frowns.

"I have something I need to tell you, and this isn't exactly what I'd planned—" Elizabeth paused. She shook her head to herself and then swallowed, her throat tight. "But I couldn't find the right words and time ran out, so I need you to watch this now." She aimed the remote at the television.

Henry leant forward in his seat, bringing himself right up to the edge of the cushion. "Elizabeth—"

"Please, Henry." She met his eye, begging. "Just watch." He retreated, and she pressed play. As the interview kicked in, she hunched forward over her knees, half-watching her family, half-watching the screen. Her heart pounded, a low _buh-boom, buh-boom, buh-boom_ that thrummed through her, pulsing through every cell.

 _"_ _So, let's turn now to what happened after your parents' accident," the interviewer said. "In April 1984, you were admitted to hospital, resulting in a six month stay as an impatient. Tell me about that."_

The family's gazes swivelled to Elizabeth, and she buried her blush in the back of her hands. Her breath trembled through her chest, and she fought to steady it. In, two, three. Hold. Out, two, three.

 _The camera panned to Elizabeth and zoomed in, ready to catch every flinch of her hands, every flicker of her expression._

 _"_ _Without having many close friends at school, my parents had always been my biggest support. When they died, everything changed in an instant, and it felt like my whole life had been thrown into chaos, like I had no control." Elizabeth shook her head to herself, and the studio lights shimmered off her hair and reflected from her glasses. "But I found solace in numbers, in equations; they were reliable, predictable, rules to follows." The barest flicker of a smile graced her lips. Then she paused, mouth open. "The trouble began when I started applying those rules to my own life, in particular to my food." Her gaze dipped to where her hands rested in her lap, but only for a second before she forced herself to meet the interviewer's eye. "I could surrender my thoughts to calculations: how much I had eaten, how much I needed to burn…It stopped me from thinking about my parents, about questions that I couldn't answer. And it gave me a set of rules too: just do this and you'll feel better, just do that and everything will be fine. It was easy to be lulled into the belief that I was in control." Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Of course, the more ingrained those thoughts became, the less control I actually had."_

 _"_ _Just to clarify. You developed anorexia?"_

 _Elizabeth's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Yes."_

Though Elizabeth knew the word was coming, had spoken it only hours before, the starkness hit her like a punch to the stomach. She bit down on her knuckle and closed her eyes.

"What?" Jason said, and he let out a nervous laugh. "You're not serious…right?"

"Oh my God!" Stevie said. "Mom!"

 _"_ _Now we're not going to go into the precise details of your illness itself, but could you tell me what led you to seeking treatment?"_

 _"_ _I was fortunate that my aunt noticed my illness early on," Elizabeth said. "After the death of Karen Carpenter in '83, and with more public figures talking about their issues with eating disorders, people were becoming increasingly aware of the problem." She paused to adjust the frames of her glasses. "I was lucky. I received the help that I needed and I was able to make a full recovery." Her lips tensed. "So many others are not so fortunate."_

 _"_ _And how were things for you after you were discharged?"_

 _"_ _Fine." Elizabeth gave a taut smile. "I went back to school, back to my normal life, and it hasn't been an issue for me since. As I said, I'm one of the lucky ones."_

Lucky. That was putting it mildly. After talking to Alice, hearing what it was like to deal with these issues day after day, she felt like a unicorn. Recovery was possible for a select few, many had to settle with remission, others with cycle after endless cycle, and the rest, well…

 _"_ _And I understand this is the first time you've spoken openly about this. Why's that?"_

 _"_ _My aunt feared the stigma that I would face. She thought that if I admitted what I had been through, people would see me as weak, and so she discouraged me—and my brother—from talking about it at all. Instead, she insisted on telling people that I had spent the summer with her in London, and she maintained that throughout her life."_

 _The interviewer arched her eyebrows. "And you maintained that story too?"_

 _"_ _I didn't have to," Elizabeth said, "not after those first few weeks at my new school. I was worried initially that it would feel like I was hiding something, but as other things became more important—my studies, friends, clubs—the illness faded into the background. It no longer felt like part of my life, and that summer soon became so insignificant to me that it really could have been a trip to London."_

The kind of memory that you couldn't be sure was real or not; when the past has become so distant that it feels like a dream.

 _"_ _If it was so insignificant, why have you decided to talk about it now?"_

 _"_ _Preparing for this interview forced me to confront that summer," Elizabeth said. "It brought back a lot of old memories; not all of them welcome." She gave a small smile that looked more like a wince. "And I realised that a big part of me feared what people would think when they found out, and for the first time, it started to feel like I was keeping a secret."_

Keeping a secret from Henry, from her family—one that they needed to talk about, even if she couldn't find the words.

 _"_ _And that bothers you?"_

 _"_ _It bothers me when my behaviour is dictated by fear." She shook her head, and her expression hardened. "I don't live like that."_

And fear was what flooded her veins now, feeding every fibre of her being. Fear of what would happen when the footage stopped, when the living room fell silent, and when she finally faced her family.

 _"_ _Do you think your aunt was right to stop you from talking about that summer?"_

 _"_ _I don't know," Elizabeth said. "I can't tell what my life would've been like if I had spoken about it. I'd like to think it would have been the same, but as my aunt told me at the time, that's probably rather naive." Her eyes turned distant for a moment, and she gave a soft snort. She looked up at the interviewer again, her expression sobered. "My aunt urged me not to talk about my illness because she didn't want it to define me, but perhaps by speaking about my experience and the issue now, I can stop this illness from defining anyone else."_

Elizabeth pointed the remote control at the television and zapped the screen to black. The faraway chatter of voices from people passing by hummed through the room, disrupted only by the _caaw-caaw-caaw_ of crows and the hop and scutter of their claws against the tiled roofs. Those sounds had never been so prominent before; perhaps because her family had never been so quiet.

She dared to look at her children and her husband. Alison and Stevie were staring at her, never more alike with their worried frowns; Jason's gaze held steady on the coffee table in front of her, not quite strong enough to meet her eye; whilst Henry…his mouth hung open as he tugged at his chin, and his eyes were so distant that his gaze whistled straight through her.

"I realise this must be a shock," Elizabeth said, "but I needed you to know."

Stevie clutched her knees, her pale pink nails digging into her jeans. "Is this why you've been so freaked out about the interview?"

Elizabeth nodded. "There was a data breach that led to my file getting out. But maybe it was time to speak about this anyway." _Maybe one day…_ "I went back to the hospital this weekend and spoke to one of the doctors there. It made me realise how lucky I am to not have lived with this."

"But I don't get it," Alison said softly. "You love food."

"I do love food, Noodle, almost as much as I love the four of you—" Elizabeth offered them a small smile. "—and I loved food back then too. Even at my worst, I loved food. It was all I could think about, all I could dream about." She shook her head. "But it's not about food, and it wasn't about weight either, not at first."

"Then what?" Jason said, and at last his gaze met hers.

"Control. After my parents died, it felt like my food, my weight, my body were the only part of my life that I could control." _Do you honestly think that you—Elizabeth—are in control now?_ Elizabeth gave a bitter smile. "Until the illness took over, and then it controlled me."

"But you can't go more than three hours without food," Stevie said. "You get all weird and shaky and hangry. How did you ever…"

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Starve myself?"

Stevie's eyes widened, and she nodded.

Elizabeth let out a huff of breath. "I became a different person." She looked to Henry, and her heart sank; he was still staring through her as though the person he had known and loved had gone.

"How come you never said anything before?" Jason said. He leant forward and clutched his hands in front of him. His lips drew into a tight bud that made him look just ten years old again.

"Because it wasn't an issue," Elizabeth said. She shrugged. "I never really thought about it. And if I did, it didn't feel real. It didn't feel like part of me." She sank back in the armchair and massaged her brow. How could she explain? "Look—" She leant forward again. "—I had the flu when I was fourteen, but I don't go round telling people about that."

"That's different," Alison said.

"Not in my mind," Elizabeth said. "Everyone's experience is different. This is mine." She looked at them in turn. Henry now avoided her gaze completely and stared at the floor— _God, what was going through his mind?_ "Would you have wanted me to tell you?"

"Yes," Stevie said, whilst Jason just shrugged.

Alison tugged her lips to one side. "You know I've struggled to accept the way I look, especially when everyone compares me to you and Stevie." Stevie lowered her gaze at that, a faint blush gracing her cheeks as she chewed on her lower lip. "It would've been nice to know what you'd been through."

Elizabeth paused. Her illness hadn't been associated with her looks or wanting to fit in or feeling the need to meet some ideal; it wasn't driven by the same pressures that Alison faced today. She swallowed. "I'm sorry, Ali. It never occurred to me." She laid her hand against Alison's knee. "It was never my intention to hide this from you—" She glanced to Henry. "—any of you."

And after what felt like an eternity, Henry met her eye.

* * *

 **Henry**

Henry looked up at Elizabeth. Leant forward in the armchair with her gaze trained on him, she fiddled with her wedding ring, twisting it round and round; all the lightness from her face had gone. Though her mouth moved, the whir of his thoughts drowned out the words, until they became nothing more than the rush of the sea lapping against the shore.

How had he not known? Then again, how could he have known? She was so…so… _normal_. She had never dieted; she had always had a profound appreciation for her body; even during her pregnancies she had been fascinated by the way her body had changed, how it accommodated each new life. But perhaps that wasn't normal. How many other women had he met like that? Perhaps it was only because she had been through hell and come out the other side that she was the way she was. Perhaps…

Elizabeth glanced down to the floor as she shook her head. The ends of her hair danced around her shoulders, golden blonde catching the light that filtered in from the windows behind. She let out a long sigh and then rose to her feet. When she met his gaze again, her eyes were glistening, like periwinkles flecked with beads of dew. "I—" Her voice hitched. She swallowed and looked away, and then running one hand through her hair, she retreated to the staircase. She paused on the bottom step. "I get that it's a lot, Henry, but you can at least have the decency to talk to me." With that, she trudged upstairs.

Henry's mind reeled. "Wait, what?"

"Mom was talking to you," Stevie said, "and you were just sat there gawking at her."

Oh God, had he? He surged to his feet, nudged past their children and hurried after her. Taking two steps at a time, he rushed up the stairs. "Elizabeth, wait."

When he reached the doorway to their bedroom, he paused. Elizabeth was sat on the bed with her back to him, and as the orange glow of sunset bled through the net curtains, it cast her into silhouette. She dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve and stifled the sob that shook through her. Henry's heart ached. He closed the door, and she flinched as it clunked into the frame. He walked towards her, and with each step, her whole body tensed, a winch winding tighter and tighter. She held up one hand—stop—and her voice wavered as she said, "Don't, Henry. Just don't."

He sat down on the stool in front of her, and she raised her hands as if to shield herself, her fists forming a cross that she pressed to her brow. Even with inky smudges of mascara that trickled down her cheeks, she had never looked more beautiful. "Look at me," he said. And when her eyes remained closed—"Elizabeth, look at me."

She took a deep breath that trembled through her, and then she opened her eyes. They were awash with such pain, such shame, that she could barely hold his gaze.

"I love you," he said, and he knelt down before her.

She studied him for a moment, her gaze flickering over every line of his expression. She almost winced as she prompted, "But?"

He shook his head. "No buts." He placed a kiss to each knee, his eyes straining to keep a lock on her gaze. "I love you, all of you."

Elizabeth lowered her hands from her forehead. She slid her palms down her thighs, fingers spread, until they came to rest over her knees, covering the spots he had just kissed, as if she could preserve the touch, a relic cast in amber. "So…you're not mad at me?"

"Why on earth would I be mad at you?" He took hold of her hands and brushed his thumbs back and forth over her knuckles. "I trust you, and if this hasn't been an issue for you, then it was up to you whether you wanted to share it with me or not." His thumbs stilled, and he squeezed her hands. "I just wish that you'd told me when it came up again, rather than worrying over this interview."

"I tried to," Elizabeth said, and her tone spiked. She stood up and brushed past him as he sank back on his heels. With one hand on her hip, the other gesturing in the air, she paced the carpet at the end of their bed. "But then you made that comment about not understanding why those models made themselves so thin."

Henry rose to his feet. He leant back against the window ledge, and the cool pocket of air that had gathered there prickled over him. With his arms crossed over his chest, he shook his head. "I only meant that it bothers me that we live in a society where young women feel so unhappy about themselves that they see dieting as their only option. Of course I don't blame them for that."

Elizabeth paused. She turned to look at him, her face an ' _Oh_ ' of realisation. But then she frowned, and mirroring him, she folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself tight. "And you said that you find it sexy that I enjoy my food." A light blush rose through her cheeks, so subtle it could have been the glow of sunset, a reflection of the fading light that seeped through the blinds.

"Yeah, I find it sexy." He dragged his gaze over her. Then he eased away from the window ledge and stepped closer, until the heat radiating from her washed over him. "The fact that you appreciate your body, that you nourish yourself, that you get pleasure from your body and food…" His lips quirked. "—that's hot." He skimmed his palms up and down her arms before bringing them to rest just above her elbows. "And the fact that you've struggled in the past doesn't change that." He leant in to press a kiss to her forehead, but she shied away, and he let his hands fall back to his sides.

Her gaze dropped to the floor. She shook her head, and her brow pinched again before she met his eye. "Then what about all that stuff—" Her fingers flared from where she had tucked her fist beneath her elbow. "—about needing to know someone before you marry them?"

"I don't expect a couple to know _everything_ about each other…" He sat down on the bench at the end of their bed and curled his fingers over the edge. He shrugged. "Besides, I was talking about Stevie, not us."

Her voice rose again as she gestured to the door. "But down there, watching that clip, you were looking at me like I'm a different person."

He shook his head. "Not different; deeper." She frowned at him, and he caught hold of her hips and urged her closer so that she stood between his thighs. He stared up at her. "As your husband, I have the privilege not only of sharing your present and helping to create your future, but also collecting these fragments of your past and piecing them together into all these layers—the layers that make you _you_ —and for every layer I add, my understanding of you deepens and I fall in love with you a little bit more."

Elizabeth's face softened. She looked down at her feet, and her lips tugged into a small smile. When she met his gaze, her eyes sparkled—sunlight refracted in the dewdrops. "So you don't think I'm crazy or damaged or weak?"

"No." He smiled back at her. "I think you're brave and compassionate and beautiful." Then he shrugged. "Maybe a little crazy." She swatted his arm, but he caught hold of her hand and tangled her fingers through his own. "But that's okay, because I'm totally crazy about you." She grinned, and a burst of warmth blossomed in his chest. He tugged her down onto the bench next to him. "Speaking out like that took a lot of courage. It was powerful."

She shook her head to herself, and her smile faded. "It was also political suicide."

"No, it's not." He cupped her cheek, bringing her gaze back to his. "It's one small part of the interview, one small piece of you." He pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "People will appreciate your honesty and your vulnerability."

Her throat bobbed. "Even the White House?"

"Conrad, Russell…they know you're not like others in politics, and that's why they're backing you. They don't want someone who's going to do the same old thing; they want someone who will shake things up." He tucked her hair behind her ear. "A breath of fresh air."

She pulled at the fingers that knotted with her own. "And things are okay between us?"

"Of course they are." He kissed her forehead again, but this time kept her close, his lips brushing against her skin as he spoke. "I told you: I love you, and nothing's going to change that."

She drew back just enough that she could nuzzle his nose, and her breath fell in hot puffs against his lips. "And you're not going to change the way you treat me, start acting like I'm fragile?"

"I wouldn't dream of it." He shivered as she glided her hand up the back of his neck and then toyed with the hair at the nape, fingertips swirling over the delicate skin. He leant in and nipped at her lips, tender at first, testing. But then he caught her lower lip and sucked gently, eliciting a gasp of breath. His hands found her hips, and he urged her up before guiding her backwards towards the bed. She fell back onto the mattress, and he climbed on top of her. This time when their lips met, he kissed her harder. No, she wasn't fragile. Not at all.

* * *

 **Elizabeth**

Henry grabbed the sheet and draped it over them, shielding their bodies from the cool air. Sweat still tingled against Elizabeth's skin as she curled up on her side, a contrast to the soft warmth that Henry brought her as he nestled against her back. He pressed a kiss to the base of her neck, whilst his hand fluttered against her stomach, pulling her impossibly closer. With his chin resting against her shoulder, he whispered, "Tell me something, anything."

"About that summer?" The words drifted through the darkness of the room, lone vessels bobbing along the waves at night.

"Anything you can," he said. "Something that's just for me and you."

She closed her eyes and went back, back, back to the flashes, the traces of intangible dreams. As she did, she stroked his hand, fingertips tracing up and down his fingers. "There was this alarm," she said, and as she spoke the _BLARP, BLARP, BLARP_ echoed in her mind. "Some of the patients on the ward suffered with psychosis, and they'd have these _episodes_ —at least, that's what the nurses called them." She shook her head to herself. "They would get agitated, and the ward would go into lockdown, and this alarm would just ring and ring and ring whilst the nurses dragged them into the isolation room." Her hand stilled against his, and in the lull, his heartbeat thumped against her back. "It was terrifying at first, but what was more frightening was how normal it became: that alarm, seeing people in that state, watching them being subdued." She lowered her chin to her chest. "By the time I left, I wouldn't even flinch." She swallowed, her throat thick, and then she gave a bitter chuckle. "When I started out at the CIA, my mentors were impressed by how calm I remained during interrogations, how I could have someone yelling in my face and not so much as blink, but once you've seen that…" She let out a short sigh.

Henry hugged her tight. His lips brushed against her earlobe as he said, "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

She shook her head, though her heart ached. "Maybe I had to. Maybe that's what needed to happen in order for me to be where I am today."

"I'm still sorry," he said. He moved his hand to her side and trailed his fingertips up and down, hip to waist, hip to waist. "Thank you for telling me."

She hesitated, mouth open. It wasn't important, not really, but she wanted to know. "What would you have done if I'd told you back then, when we first started dating?"

The _thud_ of their heartbeats filled the silence: his, hers, his, hers. "I don't know," he said. His throat clunked as he swallowed. "I'd like to think I'd have understood, but we were still kids back then." His hand stopped at her hip. "Maybe it would have been too much."

Her heart sank, a kind of loss tugging it into murky depths. Perhaps her aunt was right; perhaps her belief that truth and acceptance went hand in hand was nothing more than naive, a kind of fairytale people told themselves to shield themselves from a harsher truth. Not everyone in this world will accept you—all of you—unconditionally. A few words back then might have parted her and Henry, but they were different people now, grown together, until the broken seeds beneath the soil no longer mattered so much as the way their lives had intertwined.

"Do you understand now?" she asked. He tensed behind her, and his fingernails bit into her hip. The silence that followed held his reply. "I don't either." She shook her head. "Logically, I guess I can see why…but I still don't understand how I became someone who wasn't me, who was my opposite in every way."

"Maybe understanding, true understanding, is too much to ask for," he said. The murmur of his voice buzzed through her, resonating in her chest. "Maybe all we can hope for is acceptance and compassion."

"Acceptance and compassion." Her voice lifted as she tried out the words. They had a ring to them, a kind of heady truth. She eased herself over, bringing them chest to chest, and she slipped her leg between his thighs. His heart thrummed against her as she drew delicate whorls over his scalp. "Do you accept me?" She met his eye.

His throat bobbed, and he nodded. "Every last bit of you." His eyes had darkened, and in the dim light they were nothing but pupil. He dragged his fingers down her spine, causing her to arch into him.

She bit her bottom lip as she smiled. "Even my crazy desire to change the world?"

"You have changed the world—" He nipped at the corners of her lips. "—and I can't wait to see what you do next."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

 **Present Day**

The heels of Elizabeth's stilettos clattered against the wooden steps as she scrambled down the last stretch of the staircase and into the embrace of freshly-ground coffee and toast slathered with butter that wafted up from the kitchen. She raked one hand through her hair and then wrestled her jacket on. A glance at her watch—she should have left five minutes ago. "Has anyone seen my glasses?"

"Here." Stevie said through a mouthful of cheerios, and she lifted the glasses case from the top of the kitchen table.

"Thank you." Elizabeth snatched up the case, and she leant down to press a kiss to the top of her daughter's head. She spun round, and with her gaze darting over the room, she muttered to herself, "Phone, bag, keys…"

"Babe—" Henry brushed the crumbs from his fingers and then stood up from his chair, still chomping on a mouthful of toast. He caught hold of her waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her temple. "—it's going to be fine."

She fiddled with the top button of Henry's shirt before meeting his eye. She winced. "You promise?" Telling her family was one thing, but the whole nation…?

"Seriously, Mom," Stevie said. "We're proud of you." Alison twisted round in her seat, whilst Jason looked up from his bowl, spoon poised over the cornflakes. Both of them nodded.

Elizabeth's chest lifted a little, but it sank just as fast. "Tell that to Russell Jackson when he sees and freaks out." She could just imagine the vessel pulsing at his temple: _I told you to keep it fluffy—psychiatric wards aren't fluffy!_ She shook the image from her mind and then blew kisses to her children. "I'll see you all this evening."

There came a chorus of "Bye. Love you." that followed her to the door. Henry walked with her, his hand resting against the small of her back. He held out her trench coat for her, and she shrugged it on.

"Do you want me to come to the office?" Henry asked as she turned round. He adjusted her collar for her and then let his hands linger there. "I could watch it with you."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I'll be fine. Besides, I want someone to be here with the kids."

Henry squeezed her shoulders, and he dipped down to catch her gaze. "Babe, they're okay."

Elizabeth drew her lips to one side, and her gaze fell away as she toyed with the end of his tie. "I thought maybe they felt awkward talking about it with me."

"You heard what Stevie said: they're proud of you." Henry tilted her chin up. "I'm proud of you." And that pride shone through his eyes. "I love you." He kissed the corner of her lips, gentle but lingering. Her pulse quickened. "Now go change the world." He gave her a sharp tap on the bottom, eliciting a squeak. A rush of heat flooded her face, and he smirked in response.

She jabbed one finger at his chest. "You're so gonna pay for that." She tried her best to scowl, but a smile tugged at her lips, causing his grin to widen.

"I look forward to it."

* * *

The staff sat on the sofa and chairs around the coffee table in Elizabeth's office, facing the small television screen in the corner, whilst Elizabeth had wheeled her chair round and sat in front of her desk. An assortment of coffee mugs cluttered the table, surrounding the box of doughnuts that Blake had brought in specially for the screening of the interview. The smell of frying oil and sugar stirred Elizabeth's stomach; an undercurrent of nausea.

She watched her staff, heart pounding. Here came the punchline.

 _"_ _You developed anorexia?"_

 _Elizabeth's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Yes."_

Blake stopped eating, mouth full, the doughnut still held to his lips. He swivelled round in his chair, eyes wide, and he looked like he might choke. He swallowed, grimacing as he forced the bite down. A driver who had stalled on a railway crossing whilst the ding of bells soared to its crescendo couldn't look more shocked than he did right now.

The others turned to her too. Elizabeth hit pause. The silence weighed heavy on the room, like the lull before the storm clouds burst. Matt let out an awkward laugh as he leant forward in his seat on the couch. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and his lips tweaked into an uncertain smile. "Wait…you're kidding, right?" He stared at her hard, and the smile withered.

Jay's gaze dipped to the coffee table—perhaps rethinking his definition of _worst thing_ —whilst Kat's gaze raked over Elizabeth, and Blake just continued to gawp.

"Matt," Daisy hissed, and she jabbed him with her elbow. Her eyes bugged; perhaps shock, perhaps horror that Elizabeth hadn't come to her about this first. "Ma'am, I didn't…" She shook her head, and her hair bounced around her shoulders.

"No one knew, Daisy," Elizabeth said. She nodded to the screen. "Which is what I'm about to say." She glanced to the others in turn, her gaze lingering longest on Blake. "I'm happy to talk about this with you, but I'd like you to listen to the rest first." She paused a second and then pressed play. As the sound kicked in, her staff turned back to the screen, all except for Blake.

When the show came to an end, Elizabeth switched off the television. She placed the remote control on her desk and then stood up and smoothed out the creases from her skirt, her palms clammy against the wool. She settled back against the edge of her desk, her arms slung across her stomach. Her staff watched her, waiting.

"Any thoughts?" Elizabeth gave a stilted shrug, anything to break the tension.

Kat's eyes brightened with her tentative smile. "Ma'am, I've gotta say, I'm impressed." She motioned to the television. "That took serious _huevos_."

Elizabeth chuckled, and as her chin dipped, her hair swept forward into her face. Maybe she had been wrong to think that people would see her as weak; maybe the people who mattered would know the strength it took to stand before them now.

"I didn't mean to offend, ma'am," Matt said. "It's just that you seem so _normal_." That earnt him another acid look from Daisy.

"That's because I am normal," Elizabeth said, "or as normal as any of us are." Because what was normal anyway? "As I said, I was lucky, I recovered, and I'm hoping that by highlighting the issue it might help others to return to normality too." Her hands found her hips as she eased away from the edge of her desk and paced towards the window. "Do you know how many people live with eating disorders in America alone?"

"Millions," Daisy said.

Elizabeth nodded. Her lips quirked into a sorry smile. "Just imagine what they could achieve if they had the help they need to overcome their problems, if they received treatment as quickly as I did." She shook her head to herself, and her gaze turned to the curtains, the thin gauze glowing saffron in the sunlight. "I know what it's like being in the thick of it—you're barely able to function, you're so fixated on the illness and food." She rested her fingers against the window ledge and let out a long sigh. "So many brilliant minds caught up in that tangle of thoughts."

What achievements would the illness have robbed her of had she not recovered? Maybe she would have clawed her way through high school, possibly university. But relationships and a career? No. And what was the point of certificates if you were incapable of using them? What was the point of life without connection?

"It's a waste," Jay said, "and whilst I having nothing but respect for what you just did, there's nothing that State can do about the issue."

Elizabeth turned to him. She leant back against the window sill, her fingers curling over the edge. "It's not about what we do as a department," she said. "It's about me taking this opportunity to open up about my experience so that perhaps others feel able to open up about theirs too."

Jay shrugged, the corners of his lips curving up. "But maybe under the McCord administration?"

Elizabeth laughed, a sharp bark. "I couldn't possibly comment on that." She flashed them a smile. There were no secrets in DC, right? "I hope this—" She nodded to the television screen. "—doesn't make anyone feel awkward at all. I like the dynamic we have, and I don't want that to change."

"Of course not," Daisy said. She clutched her knees and then gave a slight shrug. "Though next time, maybe a little heads-up?"

"You mean before I go to the press about my secret love child?" Elizabeth deadpanned, but a smile broke through. "Oh no wait, they already ran that story, right?" Elizabeth's gaze flitted to them in turn, before she glanced at her watch. "Unless anyone had any questions, I think we can call that a day. Blake—" She looked to him. "—hang back a minute."

Jay, Kat and Daisy filed out, but Matt approached her where she still rested against the window sill. He stood in front of her and then opened his arms to her. "Permission to hug you, ma'am?"

Elizabeth chuckled. "Permission granted."

Matt wrapped her in his embrace. When he squeezed, it made her feel small again, like she had that summer, but safe too. "I can honestly say that you are one of the strongest people I know," Matt said, "and making yourself vulnerable like that, it only makes you stronger."

"Thank you, Matt," Elizabeth said when he stepped back, and her chest glowed. She laid her hand against his arm, a fleeting touch. "That means a lot." _Acceptance and compassion._

Matt nodded. "Goodnight, ma'am." Then he strode towards the door, clapping Blake on the shoulder as he passed.

Blake was still perched on his chair, twisted round to face Elizabeth, but his gaze had settled on the floor. Elizabeth offered him a small smile. "You look like you could use a hug too."

Blake let out a huff of breath, a derisive laugh. He looked up at her, eyes wide. "How did I not know?" And perhaps he had been doing the same as Henry, running through every moment they had spent together—every conversation, comment, action, expression—looking for the clues. But the truth was: there were none. She had left them where they belonged, back in 1984. Blake shook his head to himself, a slight blush creeping through his cheeks. "I'm sorry for all the comments I've made, all the food policing—"

Elizabeth held one hand up. "Blake, this is exactly what I don't want: for things to get weird." That was the thing with knowledge: it shifted perceptions and attitudes, and not always in a helpful way. "It doesn't bother me when you Fitbit me or make sure I'm eating something other than carbs. I just want us to continue like before. Can we do that?"

Blake pursed his lips and then nodded.

"Come here." Elizabeth beckoned him closer, and he eased up from his seat. She hugged him tight, clinging on to him until he relaxed. "If it makes you feel any better, even Henry didn't have a clue."

Blake gave a soft snort. "You never cease to amaze me, ma'am."

"Good." She patted Blake on the back, and as her grip loosened, he stepped away again. She smiled up at him. "I'd hate for people to think that I'm boring."

"You're certainly not that." Blake's expression sobered. "I know what it's like to worry what people will think about you, and how hard it is to face stigma, and though it'll probably take me a while to get my head round this, I'm proud of you and I'm grateful that you decide to share this with us."

And that pride blossomed like white light unfurling in Elizabeth's chest. She touched Blake's elbow. "Life's too short to live in fear, Blake, and far too precious to waste."

* * *

Elizabeth placed the phone back in the cradle. She stared at it for a moment before looking across to Henry where he sat on the stool at the end of the kitchen island, a glass of red wine in hand. He met her gaze and set the glass down with a soft clink, and then waited for her to speak.

"Russell Jackson's here."

Henry frowned. "Now?"

Elizabeth nodded. "No prizes for guessing what this is about." Her chest deflated as she let out a short sigh.

"Hey, babe—" Henry climbed down from the stool and strode towards her. He caught hold of her hand and laced his fingers through her own. "I'm with you." Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

He walked with her through the house and stood behind her as she wrenched open the front door. The night air drifted in, cool with the lingering trace of smoke. "Evening, Russell," she said, and Henry gripped her shoulders, his thumbs kneading the knots, a reminder to relax, a reminder that he was there and that he had her back.

Russell stepped inside, face buried in his phone as he jabbed away at the keypad. "Evening, Bess." He hit send, then stuffed the phone into his coat pocket and glanced up. He shot Henry a look, as if surprised to see him there too. "Henry."

"How can we help you, Russell?" Henry said, and his grip on Elizabeth's shoulders tightened. She pushed the door to, and as it hit the frame, the window panes shuddered.

Russell strode through to the reception room, but paused and turned back to them when they didn't follow. "What?" He gave a wry laugh. "You're not going to offer me a drink?"

Elizabeth barely suppressed a snort, and Henry squeezed her shoulders in response. In her mind, she could hear his voice, _Breathe, babe, just breathe._ "I'll get the Scotch," he said. Then his touch was gone. Any tension that he had relieved snapped back within a second, leaving each muscle as taut as a fishing line snagged in the jaws of a marlin.

Elizabeth lowered herself into one of the armchairs; she sat right at the edge, her hands clutching her knees. Russell took a seat on the couch opposite, and his gaze held to the ground as he tugged at the knot of his tie and slackened it. She watched him, a silent study of every move. Agitation? Perhaps from well-suppressed anger. Or maybe something else.

There was a clink of glasses and the glug of liquid flowing from a bottle. Then the _tap, tap, tap_ of footsteps.

"Here, babe." Henry pressed a tumbler into her hand. She lifted it to her lips, her gaze still trained on Russell. She took a sip and waited for the rush of warmth and the bite that dragged at the back of her tongue. Henry passed a glass to Russell, who nodded in thanks, and then he retreated to perch against the arm of Elizabeth's seat.

Russell looked up and met her eye. "Good job with the interview." The words lumbered from his mouth.

Elizabeth stopped with the rim of the glass resting against her lips. Her heart gave a jolt, as if flung into a different place or time. She let the tumbler fall back to her lap. "What?"

Russell shrugged. He took a swig from his own glass, his eyebrows raised. "You're officially America's sweetheart."

"So—" Elizabeth shook her head slowly, eyes narrowing on him. "—you're not mad?"

Russell frowned. "About what? Your approval rating is higher than ever." He leant forward in his seat, his gaze unflinching. "I want you to start liaising with the Health Department, see if you can come up with some new policies. God knows they could use some fresh ideas; maybe a little of your _out-of-the-box_ thinking is what they need."

"Policies?" Elizabeth echoed, and the tumbler almost slipped from her hand.

"It's about time you started branching out," Russell said, "thinking about your campaign." He shook his head to himself. "The presidency is a whole different ballgame to State, Bess. You can't win an election on foreign policy alone, and I reckon this is as good a place to start as any."

Elizabeth's mind swam, the words a jumble that she had to sift through. "You want me to talk to Health about mental health provisions?"

"Why not?"

"I just…" Elizabeth's eyes widened. "…I didn't expect…"

"What? That I'd get it?" Russell's voice sharpened. He held one hand out—stop—and he took a deep breath before meeting her eye again. "My son ran track in high school. It was his life. Every day, practice and meets. Then he picked up an injury and it was like his whole world fell apart." His jaw clenched. "What started out as cutting back because he didn't want to gain weight when he wasn't training soon progressed to a full-blown eating disorder." He rubbed his brow, and his gaze dipped back to the floor. "It was a living hell."

Elizabeth swallowed. What if it had been Stevie or Alison or Jason who had been ill, not her? The thought of seeing them like that…it made her stomach clench. "I'm sorry, Russell."

Russell shook his head. "Don't be sorry. Just do what you do best—tear apart the system, break all the rules, and don't let anyone stop you until you've changed the world."

Elizabeth nodded. Silence hummed through the room, interrupted only by the soft _tick-tock tick-tock_ from the clock on the mantlepiece. She placed her hand on Henry's thigh, searching for an anchor, and he covered her fingers with his own. "Did your son get better?" she asked Russell.

"Better? Yes. Recovered? " Russell drained the rest of his Scotch and winced. "Maybe, one day, who knows." He stood up and set the tumbler down on the coffee table. His gaze clung to it. "I've spoken to Conrad and we're in agreement about this. Whatever you need."

"Thanks, Russell." She moved to stand, but he waved her back down.

"I'll see myself out. Night, Bess. Henry."

Elizabeth's heart continued to thud long after the door had closed. Henry squeezed her hand, and she turned to look up at him. "I never thought this would actually lead to a change in policy; I just thought, if it was going to come out anyway, maybe it would give others the courage to speak up too. I mean, of course I want to help people, but do you really think I can do this?"

"Shake up the system? Enable people to get the help they need?" Henry said, and she nodded. His face softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I know that you'll do your best."

Elizabeth looked down to her lap. "And if that isn't good enough?"

Henry placed his hand on her shoulder. "You can only try." He squeezed. "Even if you manage to help one person, it'll be worth it."

"You think?" She laid her head against his thigh.

"I know." He stroked her hair, the gentleness of his touch lulling away the worries and fears that flurried through her mind. "Imagine if that one person was sixteen-year-old you. Look how much she's achieved. Look where she is now. It only takes one person to change the world, babe." His hand stilled. "I believe in you."

And maybe she could make a difference. Maybe she could spare one person, one family, that pain. Maybe they could all find strength in their moments of weakness. Maybe through vulnerability, acceptance and compassion, they would change the world.

Henry rubbed her shoulder. "It's late, babe. Come to bed."

She nodded. And as he switched off the lights and closed the latch on the front door, she thought back over all that had happened, and how maybe, just maybe, everything had stemmed from London, summer 1984.

 **The End**

* * *

So, a bit different from my previous stories. I was debating whether or not to post it—so I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please take a moment to leave a review. It will brighten my day. Thank you!


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